


the law of probability

by twigcollins



Series: moments in another time [14]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 01:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 56,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twigcollins/pseuds/twigcollins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Penelo in Bhujerba.  Starts relatively canon, swerves from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “A weaker man might be moved to re-examine his faith, if in nothing else at least in the law of probability.”

It’s almost a relief to be kidnapped, for Penelo to know that she is a prisoner because Balthier has escaped from Nalbina, along with his comrades. Which means that Vaan isn’t dead, isn’t lying in some dark corner of a crumbling dungeon, with his skin drying to paper - and she stops herself from thinking any more about that. Vaan is safe.

Vaan is alive.

So Penelo can murder him.

Far easier to be furious at him than frightened for herself, for what might happen when she is no longer useful to the bangaa who have captured her. Penelo clenches her hands into tight fists, gazing around the tiny room for the unexpected escape route she’s looked for a dozen times already. It’s infuriating to be so helpless, not to be able to let anyone know where she is or that they’re walking into a trap. Hoping only that the man they’re looking for, this Balthier is used to such a welcome. Sky pirates! Of course Vaan would get himself tangled up with sky pirates, and on the very night someone had tried to kill the new Lord Consul. It was nothing short of a miracle that they’d considered him only a common thief, that he hadn’t been executed on the spot. 

Migelo had come home absolutely beside himself, certain that there would be swift retribution for all Rabanastre, and Penelo had been up most of the night doing her best to console him, trying to hide her own worries that he might very well be right. She’d been the one dealing with the merchants and neighbors who appeared, one after another seeking news of what had happened, what was going to happen, keeping her expression calm and her tone reassuring despite the growing dread she’d felt. Finally, there had been a brief moment of quiet, to sneak away to Lowtown and make sure all was well - but Vaan’s bed had been empty, and Penelo felt a cold chill sear through her then, sharp and fast as a pistol shot, and she knew exactly what he’d done.

The handkerchief Balthier gave her is a wad in her hand, so wrinkled it won’t be of much use to anyone if - when - she can return it. He’d probably kept her alive with the gesture, Penelo knows that now. Stepping in between her and the soldiers. Stopping her from doing something so incredibly stupid, when everything from Lowtown to the palace had been a blur and she was so certain she would see Vaan’s body, or _worse_. That they would execute him then and there - the Judges can call trial at any moment, and deliver verdicts instantly - and Penelo knows she would have rather died with him there, that holding Vaan’s hand and facing the end together would be better than moving forward alone. 

Hasn’t she given enough? When will it be _enough_? 

Difficult to tell how much time has passed in her small cell, as she goes from frightened to oddly bored and then back to fear again, her heart thudding in off beats whenever the scrape of clawed feet go past the door. The manacles they clamp around her wrists are meant for bangaa, or much larger humes at best, and Penelo’s certain she could slip them off - but not get past the padlocked door as well, let alone sneak away from an entire pack of bounty hunters when she’s not even certain where they’ve taken her or how far she’d have to run to get away. 

It had been a long time in the air once they’d snatched her off the street, and then stumbling with a sack over her head and actually fighting to keep the chains _on_ , so that they didn’t clank to the floor and anger her captors, those thick-taloned fingers tight enough to bruise around her arms. Penelo thinks they even noticed her struggle, but it only made them laugh. She is both bait and temporary distraction, and at one point they even bother to ‘feed’ her, though the overlap between bangaa tastes and those of humes is not much to speak of. The offering is a joke, amusing them briefly while her stomach growls, but enduring petty cruelties has been familiar territory for years. 

It had been a surprise, of course, when they’d said Balthier was on his way to Bhujerba, and Penelo wonders what he’s really coming for. Likely to deal with these bounty hunters, and naught to do with her, but Penelo still remembers his eyes, there in the palace. The way he’d made sure to hold her gaze, and promised Vaan’s return. Kind eyes, and it was so unexpected Penelo’s sure she remembers it right. If she keeps out of the way of this fight, if the sky pirate survives there is no reason to think he won’t just let her go, or even bring her back to Rabanastre.

_Take me with you._

The thought hits her unexpectedly, and hard. Harder even than the fear for a moment, though Penelo knows it to be foolish and impossible and there’s no way she’d ever ask - oh, but this is exciting, isn’t it? The first thing she’s done in years - or ever, really - that anyone would actually want to hear about.

The door opens, and all the bangaa pile at once into the room, what she thinks now might be a whole family of bounty hunters. No matter where she looks it’s Migelo’s voice she hears, quietly dismayed at the state of their clothes or the haphazard chains and hoops piercing ears and mouths, or both at once. The spiked ornaments, the too-bright sheen of their polished skin - he’s always found such things a gaudy, unnecessary display, and thinking of his fretful disapproval is the only thing keeping the fear at bay.

“Get up.” 

“What’s going on?”

The hand closes around her arm, dragging Penelo up off the floor even as she tries to comply.

“We’ve got what we need. You’re of little use to us now.”

“W-what are you going to do?” She’s not certain if she means to Balthier, or herself, or if she even wants an answer. The head of their group has already turned away, no longer interested in a captive hume with the real prize in his sights. The manacles fall from her wrists, but before Penelo can think to appreciate it she’s dragged forward, moving among with the pack of them down a long, dimly lit hall, and roughly thrown along another, smaller corridor. Released, though she is still frozen in place, wondering if they plan to hunt her down, if she is to be some sport until the pirate arrives.

The leader growls, rounding on her.

“You try my patience, girl. Run, or die. It is little difference to me.” 

Penelo runs. 

————————————————-

Of course they’re not stupid enough to send her anywhere that might cross paths with Balthier, but as Penelo runs she wonders if there’s a way to reach them, to warn him. Did Vaan find a way to tag along, did he convince the pirate not to just cast him loose once they’d left Nalbina - either way, Penelo still owes him, although at the moment there’s not much she can do about it.

The corridor is lit sparingly, and she moves as quickly as she can while watching the shadows at her feet. No sound at all, even when Penelo stops to listen there is only her own breathing echoing off the featureless stone. A wider passage opens up ahead of her, a few more lights and a track laid into the ground - a mine, then. She shivers at the thought of so much stone around her, of not having a weapon to speak of, but the few carts she finds are empty and there’s not so much as a pickaxe in sight. Luckily, there seem to be no creatures prowling about - this is a well-used place, which means if she follows the tracks she will eventually find someone, or be found.

Penelo doubts very much that anyone will care about her story on its own merits - a kidnapped street girl is a novelty, just ask the bangaa - but the miners might not be so happy to learn the bounty hunters are using their workplace for a hideout. It might be enough to help Balthier, might be enough that they’ll consider her useful, and then Penelo can ask them for the cost of a ride home in return for her help. Even a message to Migelo would be enough - he’d send her the money for a ticket, wherever she might be, or find her a merchant she could just tag along with.

There’s light ahead, and Penelo runs into it without once considering what it means, that the bangaa had said Balthier had left Rabanastre for Bhujerba, that she must be in the skystone mines. It makes perfect sense but it just doesn’t connect, doesn’t come together until she’s breathing in a fresh breeze that’s far colder than anything that blows through the desert. Until she’s out of the mine and her legs lock up in shock at the sight, and it’s all she can do to keep her feet.

Oh.

The path beneath her is not the floor of some cavern, but a bridge. An open-sided platform, suspended over the skies.

_Oh._

For a long moment, nothing else comes to mind, and Penelo presses a hand hard against her chest, over her heart to keep it there. It aches, bruising itself badly trying to escape, to leap right out of her chest and sail off into the dawn. 

Slowly, she takes the few steps off the cart path, climbing her way up onto the platform. A short railing, and then there’s nothing beyond that but a world she only remembers in fleeting glimpses, memories so precious and so few they might as well be dreams. It stops her breath entirely, the shifting blues and greens of the sea, all silent and beautiful with the dappled light-and-dark of clouds passing overhead, Bhujerba itself leaving a great shadow on the waters below. 

Wisps of those same clouds blow past and cling to her, a wet sheen sticking to her skin and Penelo trembles and keeps her hand at her chest and tries hard not to cry. It’s just like she remembered. It’s just like she wanted it to be. 

At the horizon line, Penelo strains her eyes and thinks she might be able to see the thinnest, dark ribbon of land, out in the furthest distance. The whole world, she can stretch out her arms and flex her fingertips and it’s the whole world right there, all her own.

_Don’t go home. Don’t go don’t go don’t go._

She could stay. She could find work here. The hardest part is over, it’s _getting_ to the island that’s the trick - and some mad, wild part of her would even thank the bangaa for it if she could. Maybe she could find Nia and her new husband and beg for help, just enough to be pointed in the right direction. Of course she’d be illegal, of course she’d have to hide from the guard but how was that any different than in Rabanastre?

Penelo’s hands find the railing and clutch it, tightly - _don’t go_ \- and she takes a breath, and another and it’s still an effort to pull away. Drawing herself back from the sky and out of such silly fantasies. Foolish girl, wasting time here when Vaan is in danger, when Migelo must be out of his mind with worry. It’s a stroke of luck, being in Bhujerba, and that’s what matters most. Now she can be certain this is no abandoned mine and they will not be pleased to hear of bounty hunters laying traps, whatever their quarry.

She keeps her thoughts on that, of how she’s going to do the right thing, of the story she must tell and how to make it sound believable and not how it hurts to leave the sky behind, to duck back into the tunnel, back into the caves. Maybe they will thank her. Maybe they will let her walk around Bhujerba just for an hour, just for an afternoon, until they send her home for good.

“You! Girl! What are you doing? Stop there!”

Penelo shouldn’t run, of course. It’s what she’s been looking for, isn’t it? Someone to tell, someone to warn, and by any measure of common sense she ought to stop, to tell the story she’s so carefully prepared. The problem is that the voice startles her badly, that she’s spent nearly two years running from anyone who sounds that angry, especially when they sound that angry in armor - and as Penelo risks a glance behind her she sees that it is a very familiar set of armor, indeed. An Archadian soldier, and once she’s started running from them there’s really no way to stop.

“Catch her, damn it!”

The shadows help her escape, along with her lack of armor, making her faster, making it much easier to dodge. More than once Penelo twists away from a hand that nearly has her, listening to them stumble and curse her and gasp for breath. Spells blaze up in the darkness, flashes of light and heat but she darts forward, unscathed, moving swiftly away from where they’re now cursing at each other.

“Where did she-?”

“Did you get-”

“No, you got _me_ , idiot!”

Penelo almost laughs at the clang of what has to be a soldier’s glove off a soldier’s helm, and in a few moments more she’s near what has to be the entrance to the mines. She can see light again, and certainly there will be workers, a foreman - someone here who isn’t an Archadian. Penelo will be able to catch her breath and explain what’s happened and it will all be -

All a misstep, a moment of foolish optimism, the sort of thoughtless action she’s always chiding Vaan for, and so of course everything comes undone. Penelo runs out into what she realizes, too late, is the full and _blinding_ light of day, and when she hits the man she cannot see they both tumble hard to the ground. Voices shout in surprise and alarm and Penelo’s trying to scramble back, to blink away the light as she hears footsteps - too many footsteps - all around her, and even before her vision clears she’s sure there’s no escape.

The man she’d knocked down is much older, and Penelo hopes she didn’t hurt him even as she keeps looking, taking in the fine fabric of his coat and the jewel at his throat, the edge of a noble crest and _oh Penelo, what have you done_ -

It isn’t much of a surprise when armored hands drag her roughly up off the ground. Soldiers all around her, no sign of anyone else, and she can only imagine what she’s fallen into.

“Marquis? Sir, are you all right?”

“Fine, fine.” He waves away the much gentler hands trying to assist him, studying her as he gets to his feet. His expression is neither cruel nor kind but carefully neutral. The face of a man who has been in business for a very long time, to what Penelo soon remembers is considerable success. This is none less than the Marquis Ondore, ruler of all Bhujerba.

_You’re in for it now, Pen…_

“A Dalmascan girl in the Lhusu mines? Quite curious, indeed.”

Penelo’s mind races, searching for the right thing to say, for anything to say. She’s stepping back, not quite realizing that she can step back, that the soldiers holding her have let go and there’s no reason for them to do that unless they’re sure she’s not going to get away. Unless there’s something behind her to keep her where she is. 

Penelo’s back bumps up against metal, solid and unmoving, and she turns, and looks up and then all she wants to do is be anywhere, _anywhere_ other than this. Better to be with the bangaa back in the caves. More merciful for the Marquis to throw her right off the edge of his beautiful city. 

The Judge Magister stares down at her, though she can see nothing of his eyes behind the helmet, only darkness.

“Who are you?” 

His voice rumbles at her from that abyss, and Penelo can’t help the tiny sound of fear that escapes her, and of course he blocks out the sun. Nothing but power, a force that cannot be run from or fought against or reasoned with. Indomitable, and inevitable, the perfect symbol for an Empire that has crushed everything she’s ever known without even taking notice of it. In her nightmares, when she thinks of her brothers dying on the field, when she thinks of her parents on some distant plain breathing their last, it’s the Judge Magister who delivers that final blow. Penelo’s never seen him before, but he’s always been there.

The other soldiers stand perfectly straight, and no longer seem frightening at all. “We found her, milord Gabranth. Wandering around in the mines. No sign of Lord… of anyone else.”

“What are you doing here?”

He does not raise his voice. He does not have to. Penelo tries to speak, opens her mouth and tries but nothing comes, and tries again and still nothing. Maybe if he would stop staring down at her, but he does not move and she cannot speak. The morning light hits him but does not reflect off his armor, not even on the tips of the horns that curve down toward her. He wears a blue cloak, almost the same color as a dress her mother owned, years and years ago. Penelo cannot remember what it is she is supposed to do. 

“Answer the Magister’s question, girl!”

“Judge Gabranth,” the Marquis says smoothly, “I do believe you may have frightened her voice away. Look how pale she is. Whatever business brought her here, it seems unlikely to have anything to do with-”

“Kidnapped.” Penelo says, barely a whisper. “I was… there was… the bangaa, and…” 

She can’t mention Balthier, she can’t mention Vaan, not now, not to him - but even the few words she’s spoken are the wrong ones, that much is clear. Obviously the very last thing she ought to say as Ondore’s lips thin out into a grim frown and the Magister… it ought to make no difference, when she cannot see his face or his eyes but there is a weight that settles on him regardless. A subtle change in the air and she has made a terrible mistake and whatever he thought before he is _angry_ now. 

Penelo remembers once when she was young, finding a mouse curled up dead near their front door, with no sign of how it had died. Father had said it must have been scared, so frightened its little heart just burst. So frightened she can taste it.

“You will tell me everything.” 

Ondore is the first to look up, toward the opening of the mine, but Penelo can only hear half the words he says - “well… seems… no longer be necessary” - and then the Judge Magister has stopped looming over her as well, following the Marquis’ gaze. Penelo thinks, in a moment of perfect, certain panic, that it’s Vaan there, that he believes he’s come to rescue her, and she turns to scream, to tell him to run away - but the boy walking out of the mine isn’t Vaan at all.


	2. Chapter 2

The boy has dark hair that falls just a little past his shoulders, and a slight build, perhaps only a year or two younger than Penelo herself. His shirt is so tattered and worn he might pass for one of her neighbors, though Penelo doesn’t think they have places like Lowtown here, and there’s still the problem of the way he moves. He does not carry himself like a boy, let alone one in rags. Far too much confidence to be the owner of those clothes, and bafflingly unconcerned for someone who is steps away from a Marquis and a Judge Magister. Penelo can’t help but stare.

“If you wished for a tour of the mines, Lord Larsa,” Ondore says graciously, “I would have been quite happy to arrange one.”

Lord Larsa. Well, there’s her answer. Bhujerban nobility, perhaps?

“I apologize, Marquis,” the boy says, with the smallest deferent nod, “it was never my intent to raise an alarm. I simply wished to get some air, and I fear my curiosity got the better of me.”

“You should inform me before you step away from your cortege.” The Judge Magister says in that low, empty voice, and all Penelo’s blood goes cold again, but Larsa looks back with a practiced innocence.

“If I inform you, Gabranth, then how am I to step away?”

Calling the Judge Magister by name, without hesitation or fear - teasing him, if such things are possible. No, probably not Bhujerban. Which makes him Archadian. Which means it’s probably time for Penelo to start panicking again, and it’s probably a good idea if she just doesn’t stop.

Larsa leans a little to the side, looking around Gabranth, and it takes Penelo far longer than it ought to realize he’s staring at her. All of a sudden, she doesn’t quite know what to do with her hands. Penelo raises them toward her hair only to pull them quickly down again - she’s a mess, top to bottom, more than a simple smoothing is going to fix. Of course her father had taught her all the right etiquette for greeting the very wealthy, the most powerful - but not exactly under these circumstances.

“We found her wandering the mines, milord.” 

Penelo ought to be scared, a promise in the Judge Magister’s voice that he still wants answers, but Larsa has not stopped looking at her. A thoughtful expression, and a rather mischievous smile in his eyes. For her?

“If it is a crime to wander on one's own... then I, too, am guilty.” 

Before she can think or say a word Larsa is there, taking her hand. Penelo instantly regrets hours of cheerful work done without proper gloves, and every single time she’s ever bitten her nails. 

“I believe you are right, Gabranth. I shall not travel unaccompanied any longer.” He looks to Bhujerba’s lord. “Marquis Ondore, I thank you for your hospitality as always. I believe I shall press onward with the new day, though, and see how things fare with the Lord Consul in Rabanastre.”

Ondore makes a slightly surprised sound.

“I have heard there was some… difficulty there, during the welcoming celebration,” and with that, Penelo knows exactly how far the Marquis prefers to understate, “I would not have you put yourself in danger.”

“Nor would I,” Gabranth says, “nor would the Lord Consul.”

“Truly, it will be all right. I promise to be quite careful. Besides, it seems I have found a guide,” he says, and pulls her away, his next words soft and meant for only her. “That is if you will oblige me, Penelo?”

He looks at her as if he wishes nothing more than to take her into his confidence. Penelo thinks it would be a very easy thing, to be in his confidence, this noble Archadian stranger who somehow knows her name.

“O-of course,” she says, for the lack of any better idea, and lets him lead her away.

——————————————————

Penelo is the responsible one, the one who looks for tomorrow’s problems before they start, the one who scolds and frets and she had never meant to be this way. Never wanted to be the one who shunned adventure, who swept up dirt and minded children and split her time up each day in a hundred different ways for a hundred different people, giving herself out like matchsticks until nothing remained.

It’s more than just the relief of being rescued. It feels like the return of some part of herself she hadn’t thought she could lose, and instead of being frightened Penelo finds she is quietly delighted as they walk a narrow path that tucks in and out of the edge of one of its many neighborhoods. With no one to worry about but herself, it seems she finally just stops worrying. 

Bhujerba disarms her with its beauty, the lush trees planted along grassy walkways, private gardens peeking out through stone arches, and she wishes to walk down every narrow street and live behind each door. The buildings wind in and around each other, stacked together on terraced paths, wedged in wherever the space will allow. The shape of all Bhujerba is defined by the enormous spires and spines of Magicite that rise up where they will, like the scales of some enormous, sleeping beast, near-transparent and breathtaking against the backdrop of the sky. 

Penelo’s certain there have to be more people living here than in Rabanastre, but she only hears the occasional rise of voices from behind high walls, small markets and squares all tucked away in careful corners. The street they are on is mostly secluded save for a stretch of trees full to bursting with white flowers, petals scattering all around them and from there blown off into open space, quickly disappearing from sight.

A curve in the path ahead, a small outcrop - and suddenly all Bhujerba lies before her, airships of every make and size criss-crossing through the skies and the city bustling below. Full of men and women from all ports in Ivalice, on their way to parts unknown. In the distance, Penelo can see great mansions seemingly perched at the very edge of the islands, all but suspended in the air. She counts out half a dozen ships she hasn’t seen in ages, and three or four she’s never seen at all before she realizes she’s got her arms around herself, holding tight, and Larsa is watching her in concern.

“Are you all right? At this height, it can be difficult to adjust to the change in altitude.”

He thinks she’s afraid. He thinks this is about what happened in the mines - as if Penelo can stand here now and even remember that, or keep any other sensible thought in her head. She feels giddy. Maybe it is the air.

“I’m fine. Thank you. Thank you for everything.” 

A proper lady would likely curtsey, but Penelo is about ten minutes too late to start being proper and Larsa doesn’t seem to notice the difference.

“I would have shown you the Marquis’ estate, but I think he is not well pleased with me at the moment,” he says.

“And you are not sorry for it.” Penelo replies, before she can stop herself - but he only laughs a little.

“True enough. I imagine - oh, but you’re hurt.” He says, reaching for her other hand. Penelo is surprised to find he’s right, her knuckles scraped from the fall and her wrist red and raw where the manacle had dug into her skin, though she hadn’t noticed either until now. Or the fact that every inch of her is coated in grime.

“It’s nothing, really. I can just…” Buy a potion with the gil she doesn’t have, from among the most expensive markets in Ivalice. Right, Penelo. Sure. 

Larsa is already casting, as if she needed any more reasons to think him noble. An unskilled healing spell will sting, if it works at all. A decent mage can manage a cool, lingering numbness, and this is what Penelo’s familiar with, the very best that she’d thought magicks had to offer. When Larsa calls up his spell, though, Penelo feels nothing at all but the brush of his fingertips against the back of her hand, but a moment of his concentration and the pain is gone and her skin is mended.

“Is that better?” 

Standing so close, his eyes are nearly the same shade as Bhujerba’s shadowed seas, and that’s not fair. It’s just not fair at all. 

Penelo quickly shifts her gaze to somewhere, anywhere else and her eyes catch on a glint of light in his ear - a stud, both ears pierced with small and perfect pearls. One of them could keep her and Vaan and half of Lowtown fed for the year, easy. The set could probably buy back her home. He notices her gaze, and raises a hand to one ear with a grimace.

“Well, that does much to explain it. Overlook one detail and all is for nothing. I did spend some time thinking on this disguise, truly.”

Penelo does not have the heart to tell him how poorly it all suits him, that his magicks and his manners do far more harm than any trinkets ever could, no matter their cost.

“At least the missing button stands in your favor, milord.”

Larsa lifts the rumpled cuff, picking slightly at the thread. “I borrowed these from one of Ondore’s gardeners. I ought have it mended before I send them back - and please, it is Larsa. Only Larsa. I am not overfond of formality.”

“Larsa, then.”

“Penelo.”

Maybe she should have thought of some alias, but it’s not her fault he called her by name first - and Penelo likes the way he says it, she can’t help herself. In those Imperial tones her name sounds like some other girl’s. A girl with mysteries and secrets, the kind with some wondrous, hidden reward. The only secret Penelo can think of is how a week ago she was up to her knees in sewer water, taking out a troublesome nest of rats herself when Vaan had gone missing again, and that’s one she’s taking to the grave.

“It was Balthier who found me out. Your friend was with him.”

“You saw Vaan? Is he all right?”

“We were separated when the bangaa attacked, but their ambush did not go at all as they had planned,” Larsa studies her for a moment, “Vaan was very worried about you. He said you’d been kidnapped from Rabanastre, to serve as bait for the sky pirate. Quite the ordeal.”

He says it kindly, and Penelo knows he means it, but there’s the tiniest, wistful interest there that turns ‘ordeal’ into ‘adventure’ and she can’t help but roll her eyes.

“What _is_ it with boys?”

Larsa lifts his hands in sheepish apology, though his eyes are bright and impish again and Penelo almost pities the soldiers assigned to keep watch over him. 

“I did not mean to make light of it, I swear. I am glad that you are safe, and I would very much like to escort you home. Until then, I shall see that you’re kept from harm.”

He isn’t joking. Maybe Larsa’s using her as a convenient excuse to go to Rabanastre - he did seem excited about the prospect - but the promise of protection is quite honest and given his status, completely within his power. Once again, Penelo finds it difficult to meet his gaze.

“I… thank you.” 

Perfectly ineloquent, but when is the last time she’s done anything remotely like this? Kidnappings were one thing, but it isn’t nice to spring polite conversation on the unprepared.

The road finally draws away from the edge of the cliffs, winding its way back towards the city proper, though Penelo thinks this is a bit more than the regular visitor to Bhujerba gets to see. Judging by the houses she can glimpse though the gates, massive palaces set back behind high stone walls, they are now in the wealthiest part of town, and the guards standing here and there do seem to confirm it. Penelo gets a few odd looks as they pass, and Larsa a few more, but no one stops them. Maybe it is Larsa’s demeanor - or more likely the shadow trailing them. It is an accident she notices him at all, a brightly-colored bird darting past and Penelo turning to watch it go - and there is the Judge Magister, keeping what seems a polite distance but no more, his gaze fixed on them - on her. 

She wonders if he’s ever surprised anyone to death. It seems likely. 

“We are being followed,” Larsa says wryly, when he notices where she’s looking. “It’s all my doing. I can’t tell you the last time I managed to slip away, and Gabranth does not take such… failures lightly. It will be months, I’m certain, before I’ll get anything like another chance.”

Penelo’s rather sure it _isn’t_ Larsa’s fault, that the Judge Magister is more interested in every move she makes. As if she needs the warning, and there’s something tugging at the edge of her thoughts, some memory or lesson of what it is Judge Magisters do besides command and kill and scare everyone witless all the time, but Penelo cannot quite remember it.

“Just how did your friend find himself in the company of sky pirates, anyway? Is he a part of their crew?”

Penelo is sure Vaan is doing everything in his power to join up, though there’s no telling how successful he’ll be. It isn’t that he lacks skills, exactly, but just think of the look on his face should he be asked to swab a deck or oil a piece of machinery or any number of tedious, messy tasks she imagines even sky pirates can’t escape. Vaan lives for the gleaming ideals of things, for the way they ought to be, only to toss them aside the moment that reality threatens to dull the shine. It’s not his fault, not really - what has real life done for either of them but take things away?

Still, Penelo does not think it will be so bad if this dream is brought a bit closer to the earth.

“No, he was…” and she pauses, not at all prepared to tell the Archadian noble how Vaan had been stealing from the palace. Larsa might enjoy sneaking out unattended, but there was no telling how far his lawless sympathies would stretch. “I’m not sure, really. I only met Balthier for a moment, I’m surprised he bothered to come after me.”

It’s the truth, not all of it but more than enough to see her through.

“It would be a sad sky pirate, would it not, to ignore a damsel in distress?”

Penelo frowns, still a little embarrassed at how easily she was captured, how she’d been snatched up _and_ tossed away like some half-ripe Tomato. “Especially one he put there.” 

“I imagine sky pirates have a knack for that, as well. Still, it has given us the chance to meet, so I do owe him my thanks.”

Larsa’s being polite, nothing more. He’d say the same to anyone, so Penelo’s not even _thinking_ about anything like blushing. Or turning away with one of those silly, coy, girlish smiles she certainly can’t pull off, a tilt of her head that would likely look as if she’d developed a neck cramp. It’s the altitude. It’s turned her stupid.

“What were you doing in the mines, anyway?”

He glances over his shoulder, and shifts a little closer to her, obviously trying to keep the Judge Magister from seeing the bag he draws from his pocket. 

At first Penelo thinks it’s a stone, vaguely egg-shaped, with blunted points that curve together at one end, almost like a flower about to bloom. A dull grey color, but as she looks closer she can see it is not a stone, at least somewhat transparent though quite scratched and dull. If it were only a crystal, it would be of little value, but if it were only that Larsa would not look so intrigued.

“Manufacted Nethicite,” He snaps his fingers, and Penelo gasps as the flicker of the spell leaps from his fingers, drawn instantly into the center of the crystal. It glows for a moment, before going quiet again. “It absorbs magickal energy. I ought not to have this out of Archades - it is quite rare still, but one of the scientists in Draklor believed Bhujerba was attempting to sell them magicite from a weaker vein. Flawed crystals can cause devastating reactions during the transformation process, and if it such a thing were true... Obviously, it would create an incident to confront the Marquis directly, without proof.”

“So they sent you?”

Larsa makes an odd face. “I may have… taken it upon myself to act as a… interested third party, on a mission of diplomatic goodwill.”

“You stole it and snuck in.” 

“I did leave a note,” Larsa says, “and I am happy to say it seems their suspicions were unfounded. The magicite they are mining is of a perfectly high quality, as it always has been. If anything, I believe the Marquis might be cutting too deeply into the best reserves, in order to make his profits while he can.”

“How so?”

“Magicite is but stone when its power is gone, and so Bhujerba has always had its steady dominance in the markets of Ivalice. Nethicite, though, can be recharged, reused - eventually we will have skyships that never require new stones, and no one will need worry about the Jagd again. It may not be the case that Bhujerba’s fortunes will alter so greatly - but fears do not need to be true, for men to act on them.” 

“Archadia…” Penelo says, forcing herself to continue before she loses her nerve, “the Empire would not go to war with Bhujerba?”

“No.” Larsa says immediately, “absolutely not. Manufacted Nethicite is yet a young science,” he shifts the stone in his hand, and it seems so odd how it does not catch the light, “you would not believe the work and the price involved in this small piece alone. Even then, even were such a thing perfected - no.”

“Bhujerba is too valuable to lose.” Penelo says quietly, and she knows business enough, can see the truth plain all around her. The Skycity has leverage that Dalmasca did not, but there’s no reason to blame even an Archadian noble for that, for what no one could change. 

Larsa notices her tone, his eyes dark and solemn with apology - funny, that he should care so much for a stranger’s feelings. “I did not intend…”

“No. I meant nothing by it, truly,” she says, and smiles as best she can into the awkward moment, as he carefully slips the Nethicite back into his pocket. 

How strange, that such a trinket might prove capable of so much harm.

——————————————-

The Skygrounds are as beautiful as the overlooks in their own way, with wide and roughly cobbled streets marked here and there by large fountains, and merchants and shops stretched from one end to the other, all the tables piled high with goods. If Penelo closes her eyes, it’s like Rabanastre before the war, before Nabudis disappeared and took half of Nabradia and nearly all the markets with it, Dalmasca’s strongest trading partner vanished overnight. 

Penelo wonders what the rents are selling for on the street level- they must be high, if not inherited positions, carefully guarded - but she bets they get plenty of tourist gil, and the sky island would be first pick of the goods coming in from Balfonheim and all the ports. Bhujerba doesn’t tax Rozarrian goods the way anything coming into Dalmasca is sure to get hit - sometimes two or three times over - and that’s why she smelling real, actual coffee as they pass by the open-air cafe. Rabanastre had been forced to roast all sorts of nonsense since the Empire rolled in, none of it worth mentioning let alone drinking. Penelo has no taste for the stuff and it still makes her mouth water. 

If only she’d known she was to be kidnapped, she would have taken some extra coin and brought back souvenirs. 

All eyes are on them as they pass, because Gabranth has moved much closer now that they’re in the crush of the city. Or it would be a crush, save that his presence leaves a bubble of space on all sides, and they trail whispers in their wake. If Larsa notices any of it, he makes no sign - it must be common enough for him, though Penelo can see why he would come to enjoy sneaking away.

Above the shops and bustle of the streets are many homes, small apartments with thin balconies and shutters mostly closed to the busy streets. Penelo imagines they will open by nightfall and she cannot imagine how beautiful it must be here at night, between the lights of the city and the stars in the sky. Larsa hasn’t asked yet, but it’s rather obvious she’s never been here before, and he keeps mostly quiet while Penelo tries to see absolutely everything without slowing them down. Imagining herself behind every window - the top floor would best, to open the shutter wide in the mornings and look out over the rooftops to the rest of Bhujerba, where the green spaces and spires of Magicite nestle like cut gems in careful settings.

At the crossroads of Travica Way, they are forced to stop for a parade of sorts, a long line of chocobos donned in racing silks headed from the aerodrome to some racetrack on the other side of the city. Penelo is interested, the birds from as many different ports as everything else they’ve seen and all cleaned and groomed to gleaming perfection. As happy as she is to watch them pass, there is no denying Larsa’s keen interest, his expression a mixture of careful calculation and what might even be envy as he watches each bird go by. He watches them for so long that Penelo wonders if they’re about to take a detour toward the track.

“You are fond of the races?”

Larsa lets out a wistful sigh. “I am fond of racing, though it is rare that I am allowed these days,” he says, glancing back at the Judge Magister, “it has been decided I am too reckless in the saddle to be trusted there.”

“You broke your arm,” Gabranth says, and Penelo notices a few people behind him taking a few more steps back. “If you had been going any faster you would have broken your neck.”

“If I had gone any slower I would have had had no chance at winning,” Larsa says, but he seems resigned enough to the Judge’s verdict. “I do raise them as well - I have a Sunset Gold who just hatched her first egg, not long ago. I was worried, I acquired her from a very hard life, and I did not know how she would handle the strain, or if the chick would survive. Luckily, they are doing quite well…” Larsa trails off with a sheepish smile. “Forgive me, I am rambling now.”

How does Penelo tell him that this is the first conversation in recent memory that hasn’t only been about what she can do for someone else. Or how to make ends meet when she’s not even sure she can find both ends. Or why Filo and Kytes were running around Lowtown howling like two mad cockatrice, the former with a bucket on her head and the latter dressed in one of her very old skirts - and oh, how she’d begged them not to explain themselves.

“Do you keep many birds, or is it just the two?”

“I have seven, at the moment, although I am rather keen to acquire an eighth. A beauty of a Rozarrian blue, long feathers, an amazing stride, good disposition too.” 

Penelo tries to keep her expression mildly interested, hiding her shock. She’d already known his status, a stable full of chocobos here or there should not surprise her so, even though - _seven_? With his eye on an eighth? Gods, to keep them in food alone… 

“I have heard tell they have many fine birds in Dalmasca.” Larsa says, “do you ride?”

Penelo remembers laughing and swinging the reins, the excitement of her father lifting her into the saddle of a tolerant old bird. How strange and wonderful the world seemed from so high a place. He’d never done much business with birds - only saddles or greens on occasion. Penelo had still learned the basics of riding, a few lessons he’d traded for here and there, because he’d wanted her to know everything there was to know. He wanted her to learn all the refinements ‘past her station,’ so that she might stand here now and meet Larsa as an equal - and Penelo misses her father, misses him and loves him more than ever for such a foolish, beautiful dream.

“Not… not as often as I’d like to.”

With the parade past, they are finally on their way to the aerodrome - not so markedly different than Rabanastre’s own, if larger and obviously much better financed. The street changes shape again, now paved with tiny, colored stones at the gate, and as they step inside Penelo has to fight the urge to turn back, to spin around and try to take it all in, and bring some small piece of the city with her. A memory that would not fade. 

“Our chocobos are smaller than those in Archadia, I think,” she says instead, to distract her from any further melancholy, “at least those that the soldiers ride.”

“Ah, our cavalry birds? They’re a special breed. The Rozarrians have a similar type - they prefer the obsidian bird to our gold, but the thinking’s all along the same lines. It gives them the broad chests, that extra muscle power to support the weight of an armored rider at full tilt, while still wearing armor of their own.” Larsa’s off and running now, Penelo doubts she could stop him if she tried, “Their legs are shorter too, more maneuverable. A racing bird could blow right past them in a sprint, of course, but the cavalry’s got much better stamina for a longer fight. Oddly enough, you know, they aren’t as sharp-eyed as other birds. It’s not anything they bred for - some fault that showed up along the way, but it means they don’t tend to spook as badly in the middle of a battle and… I am certainly rambling now. Again. Forgive me.”

Penelo laughs a little at Larsa’s chagrin. It’s fun, to hear someone so passionate about something that is less than deadly serious, that is not war or suffering or the uncertain future. All of this has been a great deal of fun, and though she is certain he will forget her as soon as they part, Penelo knows this will be a story she’ll be telling for many years to come.

If she must leave Bhujerba so soon, at least she will likely be doing it from the private compartment of a Skyferry, unlikely that Larsa will bother with less. All she needs to worry about, then, is how to keep from making a fool of herself over every little luxury on the way home. A chance to slip into a private washroom, with a sink and a few towels to get the worst of the dust off, and she might even be presentable for the rest of the voyage.

It’s surprising, then, when they walk right past the ferry terminal, and Penelo knows where they must be headed, though she can’t quite believe it. It’s one thing to dart through Rabanastre’s aerodrome on business: moving through the busy commercial sections among the clunky masses of trading ships, counting up deliveries and making sure Migelo’s schedules are running as they should be. It’s another to walk along Bhujerba’s silent walkways, places where no one goes because only a select few have the coin to be here. 

It makes sense, really. It’s perfectly logical that there are more Archadian guards here, that the Judge Magister steps forward to give them orders and there is a crew ready to depart. Why wouldn’t a boy who knows the Marquis and keeps a stable full of chocobos have his own private airship?

A stunning sight, there’s no other word for it - even docked among the other private craft, surely the most elite in Bhujerba, there are none that compare. Penelo won’t say she’s any kind of expert, but this ship has been crafted with enough care that she doesn’t have to be. Even at anchor it seems ready to alight, with arcing golden wings that descend its full length in one long, sinuous curve. The glossair rings spin gently in their holdings, nestled near the stern in what seems a too-delicate embrace. Penelo is certain that’s an illusion - there is real strength in every line of the gleaming body, a grace and an elegance like no ship she’s ever seen. Maybe Larsa is not allowed to charge ahead on a chocobo whenever he wishes, but this is no meager compensation.

“Do you like it? The Balius was a gift from my Lord Brother. I am told that she is quite maneuverable at extremely high speeds due to… some feat of engineering I must admit I do not understand. Very quick, but very secure, I assure you. My brother can be rather… diligent when it comes to my safety.” 

At this point the feel of her heart jolting to a halt ought to be routine, as she catches sight of the ship’s mark, the sign of ownership, pale gold against the cream color of the hull. Subtle enough, but once she’s seen it she can’t stop looking. Penelo has seen that sigil before in Rabanastre: the dual, twining serpents. Quite recently, in fact.

“… your brother?”

“Yes,” He looks at her as if surprised by the question, and that’s exactly the moment Penelo remembers what she’d been thinking of, the final task of the Judge Magisters: bodyguards of the Imperial line. “My name is Larsa Solidor. The Lord Consul of Rabanastre is my brother, Vayne.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Some game dialogue in this one.
> 
> 2\. Penelo is 17 as in canon, and I’m making Larsa slightly older than he was in the game, just over 15, so that he gets to be a slightly more active character and so I can get to some of the romance without having to do it post-game. Because, really, the Dalmascan peasant girl and the Imperial prince? _Obviously_.


	3. Chapter 3

The _Balius_ is as much a work of art as a skyship, both outside and in, with all considerations made to elegance and beauty and vast views of the open sky. Penelo runs her hand along the smooth bend of a beam that would have been overlooked in a lesser ship, here rendered in dark and elegant tones, with decorative whorls and loops where it connects to the ceiling. Through the window the clouds have parted, and she sees that the endless blue of the sea has already given way to grays and greens, what will soon be the golden vastness of Dalmasca’s sands. The ship is very fast, but Penelo can still but barely feel the engine, only the softest hum beneath her feet. All else is still, and quiet and calm - at least on the outside.

Penelo had let herself be led on board, still too stunned by Larsa’s words - Larsa _Solidor’s_ words - to even consider another path. All too late it occurred to her, as the doors closed and the ship pulled away from the skycity that there was no one left around her but soldiers, and the Judge Magister, and if anything were to happen here…

“I regret I cannot give you a bit more in the way of proper luxury.” Larsa says. “It is a bachelor’s ship, and not often pressed into a lady’s service. Still, I should make myself a bit more presentable before I am to be properly scolded. I would offer you the use of the guest quarters as your own for the journey.”

The most gracious way possible of saying she smells like a dead hyena, and Penelo might want to do something about that.

“Yes, please. Thank you,” she says, aware that she’s just tossing all her politeness out at random in place of actual etiquette. It will be to her benefit to put a door between herself and the rest of the world for a while. Let the day wash off her skin, collect her thoughts and not make any more of a fool of herself.

No surprise that the ship has a private suite for Larsa, with extra rooms for his guests, or that such people wouldn’t think that air travel - or anything at all - ought to come with lowered expectations. So the bathroom alone is easily the size of the space she shares with Vaan in Lowtown, with a smaller antechamber of its own for dressing and undressing. Well-heated, so that there’s no chance to catch a chill, and there is even a chandelier hanging above her head, crystal drops reflecting the light. 

“It has a chandelier,” she says aloud. When’s the next time she’ll be able to say anything so absurd? “A chandelier in the bathroom of Vayne Soldior’s little brother’s airship, because I’ve gone _insane_.”

Sky pirate nothing, just let Vaan try to top this.

Penelo flinches as she finally gets a boot off, and what seems like half the dirt from the mines comes pouring out with it. Hanging her filthy, sweat-soaked clothes up only makes them seem all the more irredeemable, and she doesn’t relish the thought of having to crawl back inside of them later. The few crew she’d seen not in armor had been wearing simple uniforms, perhaps she might beg the use of one until they reached the city?

Until they were back in Rabanastre. Her home. Vaan’s home. The new Lord Consul’s home, or what remains of it now that the smoke has cleared.

Larsa is not just Vayne Solidor’s younger brother, but his _only_ brother. At least the only one still alive, or so she’d heard. The rumors had flown fast and hard in the week leading up to the Lord Consul’s arrival, when half the city was certain it couldn’t be him and the other half certain it meant they’d be wiped off the map in short order. Among the rumors were those that said there were once two other Solidors. Brothers who had stood between Vayne and the throne and he hadn’t cared for that at all. It simply wouldn’t do.

The Archadian soldiers had laughed at many of the wilder stories and added badly needed facts to others, but they had been oddly quiet about the suggestion of fratricide, offering complicated explanations that never quite seemed to reach absolution. The truth of it, or so they said, was treason, two brothers cast down for threatening the realm. As much a personal strike against House Solidor as a matter of state - but the Emperor had never seemed all that grateful, and Vayne had been so very quick to prove his loyalty with blood.

Penelo’s heart thumps, and she takes a few slow, deep breaths in the silence. Completely alone here, at least for a moment. Taking in the wide room with its gleaming fixtures, her bare feet against the cool stone of a mosaic, countless tiny slivers of marble inlaid into the floor. The pale green serpents of Solidor stretch across the whole of the room, bordered in a dark, glittering circle of another stone she can’t quite place. Her dazed mind is estimating prices anyway, and even at the depth of an eighth of an inch - any more would be too much weight, even for a ship this size - but the quality of the stone and the size of the design, together with the hours and hours of craftsmanship, the way her toes can’t find a single seam, even among the tiniest details…

She doubts she will see anything more impressive - at least until she reaches the shower, and what Penelo soon realizes is a limitless supply of hot water. 

It’s been six months since she’s had a hot bath, and that a gift from Migelo for her birthday, purchased at a very fine price. It pales in comparison to this, as Penelo leans against the wall and lets the water pound across her shoulders and down her back, the steam rising as she turns the heat as high as she can bear. Larsa had apologized for the lack of luxuries, which means there’s only a handful of soaps to choose from in brisk, clean scents, instead of whatever ludicrous, flowery cache makes up an Archadian lady’s daily regimen.

She spends as long as she dares under the water, not wanting to see who might be sent after her when Larsa grows tired of waiting. At the last moment, Penelo turns the tap to cold, just for the bracing jolt of it, and then she’s clean and dripping all over that marvelous floor, wondering how many towels she can use before someone lodges a protest. 

Maybe Larsa thinks she’s Dalmascan nobility, kidnapped for some reason that’s actually sensible, and that’s why he’s being so nice. It will be a shame, when he figures out he’s been carting around a nobody all this time - but she got a shower out of it at least, and there’s no one who wouldn’t set that deal in her favor.

Squeezing the water from her hair, Penelo quickly braids it back up, stepping into the antechamber and reaching for her clothes. It takes a moment of clutching at the fabric before she realizes what she’s holding. The outfit she’d come aboard in is gone, right down to the boots, and replaced with - bafflingly - a pair of sandals and a traditional Dalmascan dress, with the darker under layer and the yards and yards of loose fabric to be tied up and wrapped into place. It’s rather amazing they recognized it at all - most Archadians mistook them for tablecloths when they went to the markets. It’s been ages since she’s even touched one, impractical for the hauling and running and loading that makes up most of her days - and Penelo and her mother had sold the best of theirs long ago.

She rubs the fine weave in between her fingers - moogle work, it has to be for the size of the stitches, and gods, the _cost_ of it - and Penelo realizes they must have gotten it at one of the stalls in Bhujerba, maybe even one they’d walked past, that she’d made some slight mention of. It seems absurd, but there’s no other explanation. In the time it had taken for them to prepare to launch, Larsa had one of his men run back to the markets and buy her an outfit to wear home. It’s even a similar shade of yellow as her own clothes, trimmed in brown with tiny topaz beads that glint and sparkle and make her glance back up at the chandelier. 

Fancier than anything she’d used to wear, even in the best of times. Vaan would say it was no more than her due, only the tiniest portion of what she truly deserved. No, he would think she ought not not to accept any gifts from an Archadian, not when they’d taken everything to begin with - but Larsa did not attack her home, no matter who his brother is. He didn’t do that then, and he didn’t need to do this now. Whatever else has happened, or what Penelo knows of the Empire, this is a gesture of kindness. 

Carefully, she winds the fabric around herself. Remembering the way her mother chided her in lessons long ago, and the feeling of her hands on Penelo’s own, making sure of each tuck and fold. How impatient Penelo had always been to be finished with it, annoyed to have to learn how to wrap herself up in what she didn’t want to wear anyway. All those memories are quiet and sweet now, and as she looks in the mirror Penelo thinks her mother would be pleased, that this is not such a bad way to present herself to anyone, even the son of an emperor.

Larsa does not disappoint, waiting for her in the main room of the ship and once more dressed to match his station. He’d been sitting near a small table, maybe waiting for her, or perhaps she’d interrupted his work, but he smiles when she appears, and quickly stands. The Judge Magister is near the door that Penelo assumes leads to the bridge, perhaps trying to be unobtrusive, though there is no place in the world such a man could go unnoticed.

“Ah, good. I hoped they had found the right shop,” Larsa says, “The dress is to your liking? I think it suits you quite well.”

“Y-yes. It’s lovely. Thank you.”

Penelo takes a seat opposite his own, the table between them set with two cups for tea, though just the sight of it leaves her queasy - too many nerves still, with no idea of just what’s to come. Larsa shuffles through a few more papers, making some final notes with a quick stroke of the pen before setting them to the side. He reminds her of some bright-eyed bird, taking in all the world, absolutely everything that might prove interesting, and it is almost intimidating to have his full attention fixed on her.

“I have been wishing to visit Rabanastre. My Lord Brother gave a speech, and despite what came after, I heard it was quite well-received. Did you see it?” 

Penelo remembers sitting on the stairs in the plaza at the palace, and all those pretty words the new Lord Consul had said about peace and unity, about defending Dalmasca. She remembers the applause, and Vaan going stiff and angry beside her.

“I did.”

“He is an excellent speaker. I have oft listened to him practice, when he is in need of an audience… and sometimes, even when he is not,” Larsa smiles for a moment, but it fades, “I have been assured he is all right, of course, but I… I would like to see it for myself.”

Penelo intends to make some noncommittal noise, something amiable and inoffensive. The _least_ she could do is be polite, but instead she discovers Larsa is staring at her with that worried gaze again, and looks down to find she’s wringing her hands as if she were still clutching Balthier’s handkerchief. It remains with her clothes, which have probably been long since tossed out the airlock, and she can only hope the sky pirate has a spare. Certainly, he must - no doubt Balthier has a daily quota of handing off tokens to young girls.

“Are you all right?” Larsa says, because she still hasn’t said a thing, “Forgive me, I thought you knew who I was.”

“I should have realized,” Penelo says, and he had been able to disguise at least _that_ much from her, for a while, “I only saw the Lord Consul at a distance, but there is a semblance between you.”

The best thing she ever could have said, as Larsa smiles brightly. “I would like to think so. We are but half-brothers, truly. The first Empress died when Vayne was young, and my own mother lost her life giving birth to me.”

“I’m sorry.”

Larsa shrugs, “I never knew her, apart from what my brother has told me. He has never treated me as if we are anything less than family. I had very much wanted to be there, to see his first speech as Lord Consul, but my brother bid me wait. He said he wished to focus fully on Dalmasca, on mending what had been so badly sundered. My brother - my brother is not one given to failure. Perhaps things aren’t going as well as they might be… but give him a little time, and he will put things to rights,” he nods, and there is only fondness there, nothing but confidence and trust. “Be not troubled. My brother is a remarkable man.”

“He frightens me.” It slips out unbidden, and Penelo barely manages to keep from wincing as Larsa frowns, though he seems surprised, ever concerned even when he could claim the right to anger.

“Why?”

“I’m sorry. He is your brother. It’s just - you don’t understand how much we lost to the war.” 

How much she’d lost. Everything. Everything gone, and how easy it would be for the Lord Consul to wave his hand and sweep away all the pieces that remained. Look how fast Vaan had found himself in peril, and how close Penelo had come to losing him forever. A stroke of mad luck and a sky pirate to save him this time, but what about the next time, or the one after that?

“You fear the Empire.”

It’s an insult to say yes, and a lie to say no, one she knows Larsa will see right through. Penelo drops her eyes, and whatever she’s expecting to happen next, it is not to find Larsa there before her, gazing back. 

He’s down on one knee, looking up at her - and Penelo remembers what had come just after the Lord Consul’s speech. Remembers Migelo bowing low before the Lord Consul only to have Vayne crouch down, helping him back to his feet, clapping what seemed like a friendly hand on his shoulder. Except that it made no sense at all, no less impossible than what Larsa is doing now. The sons of desert chiefs with but two chocobos to their name would never think to lower themselves like this, not even for a moment, let alone a boy who might one day hold the throne that rules half the world.

“Listen to me. The men of my family, we are taught to place the needs of others before those of our own. I will see that you are kept from harm. It is my duty to House Solidor. I give you my word, and I swear that my brother would do no less.”

The best Penelo had ever thought to hope for was to go unnoticed. The Empire is not leaving, whatever Vaan wants to dream of, and when he speaks of rebellion and revolution it’s so hard for her not to get angry. He’s _lived_ it, he’s been there beside her through the worst of it, and yet he still thinks there is some way they might win. Did he understand it better now, after being in the palace? Watching the Ifrit rain down fire as if it were nothing, untouchable and unstoppable and destroying everything in its path - does he still believe they can fight back against that? 

It is not the hero’s dream, not good enough for Vaan, but all Penelo wants is to _live_. If they are quiet and careful and fortunate they might all manage to slip past, somehow. Stay alive long enough to build some small, new future in a better place than Lowtown. It is all she’s dared to think of, with her whole life turned into a long parade of ‘somehows,’ and nearly painful to imagine any new possibilities, or the chance to hope for more. 

If the Lord Consul had actually _meant_ all that he’d said - if Larsa speaks true, and Vayne Solidor honestly wishes for any real, lasting good for Dalmasca…

“I want to believe you. I do.”

Larsa’s wearing gloves now, fine and white and soft, yet thin enough that she can feel the warmth of his hand when it closes around hers. The blue in his doublet picks up in his eyes, which remain the same shade as the sea, like looking down through the clouds to the ever-shifting waves. He would make a fine merchant, Penelo thinks. If Larsa can make her believe in this, make her _want_ to believe, he could sell anything. It’s a heady draught, so much earnestness from a boy with the power to change the way things are, who is good-hearted _because_ he has that power rather than in spite of it. 

“I am grateful, then, for the opportunity to prove myself.”

He does not let go of her hand. Penelo does not look away.

“Lord Larsa.” A soldier appears, and bows, and she can feel the slight shift in the ship, even as Larsa stands, and turns - they’re slowing down, the engines cutting speed.

“Yes? Is there a problem?”

“No, milord. We’ve reached the fleet of ships sent back from the city during the… troubles in Rabanastre,” maybe the soldier’s eyes flick to Penelo, just for a moment, before he continues, “we are being hailed by the _Tyche_.”

If she were not looking at Larsa in that instant, Penelo would miss it, and if she were not already so sensitive to the barest hint of trouble, she might miss it anyway - the slight frown in his eyes, the way his expression fixes in place, carefully blank before he can reveal any more.

“Very well. Send our greetings. We will prepare to dock with them at once.”

“Yes, milord. Right away.”

The soldier leaves. The Judge Magister is still with them, but it is clear Larsa does not bother to hide his true feelings from someone who is ever present. He lets out a soft sigh, staring for a moment at the ceiling.

“I suppose it is a bit late to ask you to hijack the ship.”

Intended as a joke, but his tone is dull, and Penelo gets to her feet because it’s always better to be ready to move, even if she doesn’t know what’s happening, even if there’s nowhere to go. “Are we… is there going to be trouble?”

“Many of the Archadians in Dalmasca thought it best to take to the skies rather than move to assist my Lord Brother in the city,” Larsa shakes his head, “though I am sure he would say I am being unfair. Of course they are worried over all that has happened, and uncertain of what their next move ought to be. I know the _Tyche_ , these are important and well-connected men. As my brother is not here, I must act as representative of House Solidor, and do my best to reassure them all is well.” 

Complicated, perhaps, but not all that dangerous, though Larsa still stares at her, his expression solemn. “I fear there is nothing left but to face it bravely. We are likely to be bored to death.”

It surprises a laugh out of her, and then he smiles, turning to the Judge Magister. “Gabranth, you have my permission to save yourself. My brother will surely understand.”

Maybe, just maybe, the tiniest sigh from the depths of the helm, as if Larsa has actually reached something human behind all that steel.

He offers her his arm as the _Balius_ shudders slightly, connecting to the other ship. Penelo reaches for his sleeve, keeping her hold as light as she can. Feeling like a child putting on airs, like none of this is quite real because it isn’t, because she isn’t whatever Larsa thinks she is, and there are soldiers all around her, reminding her of what will happen should she slip, should anything go wrong. 

It ought to mean nothing, that small bit of contact between them as they make their way toward the door. It ought not to feel as if she is protected, that she is in any way safe. Larsa can make all the vows he wants - and he can break them just as easily, the moment she becomes inconvenient. Except that he won’t, Penelo is strangely sure of it, which means that she is the one who’s lied. 

Larsa cannot prove himself to her, if she already trusts him to lead the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Some game dialogue in here too.


	4. Chapter 4

“It was his first day. One _day_ , and this is what we have to show for it? House Solidor’s damn well stirred up the malboro’s nest this time.”

The raised voice carries over lower murmurs of conversation as they reach the door of the Tyche’s meeting hall. The trading ship is larger than the _Balius_ , richly appointed if not crafted with quite so much care, built for show rather than speed. Penelo’s new shoes tap lightly against the well-polished floor, not quite loud enough to announce their presence.

“You know they had this planned out, just waiting on his arrival. If you weren’t ready for it, you’ve only got yourself to blame.”

“I’d thought the Judges would have handled it all by now. Or is that asking too much?”

“The hell did he say in that speech of his anyway?”

“The speech didn’t matter.”

“I heard it mattered.”

“Maybe they thought he was going to make pants mandatory?”

The first voice again, in annoyed disgust. “You think this is funny, but I’m not the only one in here losing money by the hour.”

Penelo’s all too familiar with this sort of grumbling, the muttered annoyance and indigence of merchants not getting what they want when they want it. Watching poor weather make merry with their imports, or a turn of fashion wreaking havoc on their exports, or any number of other ways the world can suddenly snatch gil from the coffers. Funny that she feels more comfortable among so many ill-tempered men than alone with Larsa. At least this is a world she understands, even if it’s all a bit more well-upholstered and she assumes it’s Archadian whisky they’re drowning their sorrows in instead of Balfonheim rum. 

Whatever reservations or misgivings Larsa may have felt on his own ship, there is no sign of them now. He smiles with a self-assured confidence as he steps inside, no hesitation at all in addressing the room. 

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. I hope I am not interrupting.”

“Certainly not, Lord Larsa.” 

The men are all quickly to their feet, or standing straight from where they’d been slouching, giving courteous little bows. A wall of silk waistcoats and golden watch chains and gleaming adornments, all vaguely indistinguishable from one another. Old and rich, well-spoken and likely to mean none of it. 

One of them takes a step forward, perhaps appointing himself spokesman for the rest of the group. He seems a good choice for the task, tall and thin with short, dark hair gone only a little salt-and-pepper near his temples. It does not age him, only adding a sense of cool confidence born of long experience. He has a scar framing the right side of his face, from near his eyebrow all the way down to the corner of his mouth. Penelo wonders where he received it, that he hadn’t had it quickly healed away. Or that he hadn’t wanted to.

“Baron Tibsen, of the eastern highlands. It’s an honor that you have accepted our humble invitation. We are glad to hear this disturbance had no echoes in Bhujerba.”

A snort from the man Penelo had heard at the start, the loudest of them, though momentarily muffled by a mouthful of whisky. It is likely he does not console himself with his first glass, or his second, and his face is an odd shade of purple that clashes with his red jacket. He swallows, glancing down into the empty glass as if it has somehow failed him. “Ondore knows how to keep his ships in a row. Whatever port they might hail from.”

Gossip of the oldest sort, well entrenched that the Marquis has business prospects in every corner of Ivalice - and Rozarrian coin spends as well as any other. 

Penelo sees more than a few of the men gazing behind her, does not have to turn to know the Judge Magister is taking up a position near the door. A bit comforting to know that even these great businessmen of Archades are unnerved by his presence.

“We have been exchanging stories of Rabanastre, of course,” the Baron says, “Information has been… rather sparse, yet. The rumors we have heard, the Lord Consul…”

“The aerodrome’s been closed ever since he entered the city!” The red-faced man steps in, and Penelo thinks he’s appointed himself the angry one, and that the others are likely quite happy to let him embarrass himself on their behalf, “I’ve got cargo that needs shipping out. I was up half the night - it’s not going to keep forever, and I was _promised_ -” 

“Fortunately,” Larsa says, “as my brother is unharmed, I am certain he will make the swift return to normalcy his first concern.”

He smiles, the words smooth and even-tempered. Nothing at all to suggest any kind of annoyance, that these men so obviously care more for money than the Lord Consul’s safety.

“Of course we are all most grateful that His Lordship has come through such a terrible trial unscathed,” Baron Tibsen swiftly steps in. Penelo has to hide a smile at how he tries to recover, at how there’s no subtle way to pretend he’s doing otherwise. 

Maybe she doesn’t manage to keep her amusement fully hidden, or maybe the drunken man is addled just enough to think she’s worth noticing.

“So is that her, then? This princess of theirs, back from the dead?”

All eyes on her, as Penelo tries to make sense of what she realizes is an awkward and unfunny joke, suddenly feeling much less comfortable. Ashelia of Dalmasca, that’s who the man’s asking about, and of course she’d heard the possibility, just who was leading that charge on the fete. Of course there’d been whispers on the streets before the bangaa had grabbed her. Rumors even before then, two years of speculation. Had the princess been there, when Penelo had rushed down looking for Vaan? It’s all too much a blur now, the sky pirate and all the Archadian soldiers, it had all happened so fast… 

“The lady Penelo is my guest,” Larsa says, and it’s only when he puts his hand on hers that she realizes how hard she’s holding his arm, “and she has been so kind as to agree to accompany me to Rabanastre.”

Lady. The lady Penelo. Oh, it’s getting worse by the minute. If she doesn’t figure out a way to get off this ship, she’ll be a Duchess before they land.

“Indeed.” A murmur passes among the small assembly, a ripple just beneath the surface, and Penelo doesn’t understand it but she knows it’s about her and it isn’t kind. The man with the scar studies her, his polite half-smile such a fiction it seems hardly worth the bother. “Of course, House Solidor has always been one to find opportunity in adversity.”

So they think she’s not just nobility, but with a high enough title to have taken shelter in Bhujerba during the war. It’s clear they’re wondering just whose daughter she is, what business House Solidor might have with expatriate Dalmascans on the sky island. Penelo wonders if any of them were put out, when Migelo had been chosen to host the fete rather than one of their own, and how many more Archadians might be preparing to follow the Lord Consul into town, should Rabanastre’s prospects improve.

“If only we all had such good fortune.” A new voice in the fray, somewhere from the back of the group, “The _Ifrit_ nearly took out two of my ships on its way into town, without so much as a look in our direction. If the Lord Consul should need a steady defense, those ships will be passing right through our airspace. We’ve got no chance of trading around that. Gods help us if they set up a blockade.”

“The trade routes cannot simply be shifted?” Larsa says.

The drunken man snorts, pouring himself another drink. “Simply shift them further and you’ll be tossing ships into what’s left of Nabradia. The Jagd that direction… border to border, it’s a nightmare. New sinkholes open up every time we manage to chart around the last set.”

The conversation opens up, everyone with an opinion on how their ships’ routes have been the most ill served in the past half-year, so Penelo is the only one to catch a hint of movement, a blur of color from the corner of her eye. 

An inner door stands open, leading further into the ship. As she watches, a hand pops into view, small fingers curled around the edge of the frame, followed by a cloud of dark ringlets and a pair of bright, curious eyes. The girl is young, perhaps even younger than Filo, but dressed like an Archadian noble, with lace and ruffles and sobriety to befit any grown woman. It all comes a bit undone, though, when she shifts and Penelo sees bare toes peeking out beneath the edge of her skirts. A mischievous grin, and she’s gone again.

“Of course,” the Baron says, taking control of the conversation once more, “we are aware the Lord Consul has invested considerable sums in the hopes of developing technologies to counteract the Jagd.” 

Penelo feels Larsa tense up, just a little, though his expression never changes. Penelo thinks that if the drunken man speaks for their anger, this man is the one to be conciliatory, to politely find the compromise. Except it is a politeness no deeper than the surface of things, empty of warmth or truth and only considerate to his own ends. Clearly, Larsa is familiar with such men, and he meets him in kind, a smile that is equally conciliatory and gives nothing away.

“The Draklor Laboratories have made many exceptional advances in airship technology as of late, and my lord brother has every confidence they will continue to do so.”

“I have heard that in the realm of Manufacted Nethicite, he has every reason to be confident.”

Penelo is certain then, this is the reason Larsa did not want to be in this room. It’s true what he’s said of Nethicite, that it is rare and highly valuable and these men want far more than reassurance - they want information, and this meeting will be nothing but thinly veiled attempts to learn what he knows, to determine Vayne Solidor’s ultimate course of action. Larsa’s eyes flick to hers, for the briefest instant, and there is that hint of a smile again, a real smile. The secret joke between the two of them, that he has in his pocket the very treasure they so wish for. Easily within their reach, and none of them will ever know it. 

“Ah, where are my manners? Forgive me,” the Baron surprises Penelo then, by remembering she exists, “no lady should have to endure such tedious conversation.” 

He gestures to the open door. “Isbelyn! Come here, child.”

The girl reappears, hands quickly smoothing down the front of her dress, walking towards them with as much delicacy as it is the desire to hide her bare feet. Not that the men take more than a passing notice of her, and she curtsies deeply to Larsa, eyes sparkling with a mixture of awe and delight.

“Milord Solidor. Milady. It is an honor.”

“This girl is my niece, and charge,” Baron Tibsen says, with the same air as someone describing a mildly interesting piece of furniture, “Isbelyn, do show the lady Penelo to your sister’s rooms, that she may be entertained in a more befitting manner.”

Penelo is usually entertained by listening to Vaan and Kytes attempt to belch the chorus of the Dalmascan national anthem - pride of the country and all - but she’s a lady now, which apparently means she’s deserving of better. It also means there’s no way to protest or argue or do much of anything as the girl quickly takes her by the arm, pulling her away. 

Larsa seems disappointed to see her go, though it’s probably more about having to stay behind, and Penelo feels more than a little guilty for leaving him to such a fate. Still, she’s certain he had stepped on board knowing exactly where this would all lead, and just as certain that, should things prove unpleasant, he can simply have the Judge Magister punch them all until the meeting is adjourned.

At the door she takes a last glance back, but the men have all shifted position and Larsa has completely vanished into the crowd. The girl tugs on Penelo’s hand with a surprising ferocity for her size, and in what seems to be a distressingly common theme for the day, she can only follow along and wonder what in the world will happen next.


	5. Chapter 5

“Look at your shoulders! Oh, you’re so tan. I wish I were that tan. I look like a corpse.” 

The girl has not taken her eyes off Penelo, even to look where she’s going. At any moment she seems ready to go head over heels, all attention on her new guest and none on where she puts her feet. 

“You’re wearing one of those strange dresses, without any buttons. How do you wear such a pretty thing? Are you really from Rabanastre? You are, aren’t you?”

She speaks in a stage whisper, though there isn’t any reason for it, the halls here quite empty save for the two of them. Penelo wonders where they are going, though so far the girl has not paused long enough for her to draw a breath, let alone ask a question of her own.

“Do you know many boys there? We saw a group of them at a town near the border, playing a game. They were all quite worth looking at, and they do not seem to like clothes very much. Do they dress like that in the city, too? I’m sure you must know some very handsome boys.” 

The girl stops short, and sweeps up both of Penelo’s hands, clasping them fast. “Oh, this is all so exciting! I have not had the chance to speak with a real Dalmascan! You must tell us everything, all at once!”

“Isbi!” A voice from behind a nearby door, slightly muffled, and Penelo sees the girl grimace ever so slightly. “Isbelyn Cydele, I know you’re out there, running around half-dressed and-”

The door opens, and an older girl appears, brandishing a pair of stockings in one hand, shoes in the other and an annoyed look that quickly turns to shock. Penelo decides upon a smile that is equal parts shyness and apology. Isbelyn rocks back on her heels, smugness from tip to toe.

“Our uncle has asked us to entertain a visitor.” A childish flourish of one hand, and perhaps half a giggle, so much gossip in so small a girl she can hardly contain it all, “Sister, may I present the Lady Penelo of Rabanastre, traveling from Bhujerba as the honored guest of Lord Larsa Solidor.”

The older girl has not stopped gaping. Penelo tries not to wince. “It’s not as exciting as it sounds.”

The other half of Isbeyn’s giggle rings out in the silence. “It sounds very exciting.”

“Isbi!” 

Scandal finally frees the older girl from her surprise, and she quickly attempts to corral her little sister. It works about as well as Penelo’s attempts to forestall a food fight after one too many days of rewarmed bread and tomatoes. There is a good deal of whining, a dignified attempt at admonition and finally a bit of simple wrangling, stockings and shoes shoved in the younger girl’s arms and the girl herself shoved in what Penelo assumes is a dressing room, the door slamming shut behind her.

“Isbelyn, ladies do not slam doors!” The older girl says, a poised hand against her head, as if warding off the world’s most graceful headache, her next words just loud enough for Penelo to hear, “no matter how satisfying it might be.”

She glances over, and Penelo grins in sympathy, and the girl smiles back and with that, a great deal of awkwardness rushes out of the room all at once.

“I apologize for my sister’s regrettable lack of manners. It has been rather an exciting time for us, and she is still quite young.” A curtsey, and Penelo mirrors the movement, “My name is Rhiale. Rhiale Kyndall M-” A small frown flickers across her face, just for a moment. “No, it is Tibsen now. At least for a little while longer.”

Rhiale is not much older than Penelo, but in one of those Archadian dresses with all the dignity that comes with them, muted jewel tones and long, full skirts and a noble, graceful maturity. The bodice of her dress is all in green velvet, with thin gold thread stitched in a diamond pattern all along the front, and she’s wearing a rather ornate headpiece, a shining cage for her long, dark braids. A bit of nervousness creeps back in, there’s no helping it. Penelo may not be wearing the clothes she crawled from the mines in, but this Archadian is not a girl with calluses under her gloves or freckles on her shoulders from hours of hauling cargo in the sun, either.

“I cannot offer much, but all my hospitality is yours,” Rhiale says, gesturing toward the larger room, with the slightest waver in her voice that makes Penelo think she might not be the only one uncertain of what to do next, hiding any nervousness behind manners as impervious as stone. 

The _Tyche’s_ rooms are, perhaps, what Larsa meant when he apologized for his bachelor’s quarters - a full suite here, with heavy drapes and the glimpse of a claw-footed tub in the bath and marble-topped tables set with elaborate dried bouquets. Everything required for when being in an airship is not quite impressive enough. The sitting room opens on a full view of the sky, floor to ceiling, with the Balius visible, flying just behind the larger ship. Penelo watches it gleam for a moment in the sun, the thin, high clouds swirling past the stern. It’s going to hurt, to let go of all this. Only one day of being airborne and she’d do almost anything not to give it up.

“My sister spoke truly, then? You are from Rabanastre?”

“Yes,” Penelo can’t help herself, “though from the part that wears clothes.”

Rhiale shakes her head with an embarrassed smile. “I beg you, please do not mark anything by Isbi’s idle chatter. I promise she is just as inappropriate to family as she is to strangers.”

“Do you both… live here?” Penelo says, looking around the room. It doesn’t seem to have much in the way of personal touches, but perhaps that is not the way they do things in Archadia. 

“Oh, no. My sister and I were in Rabanastre for the Lord Consul’s arrival. I was to have my debut once my uncle had… made measure of the men in attendance,” Rihale looks at her hands for a moment, “my uncle is the Baron Tibsen. We are greatly indebted that he has agreed to sponsor me.”

The words come out as if she’s repeating them, less gratitude than rote recital, though if the man with the scar is her uncle Penelo can see why even his kindness might not seem a comfort.

Before Penelo can think to ask any more questions there is a flurry of movement and the rustle of skirts and Isbelyn is with them again, dropped into the seat next to Penelo with more exuberance than grace. There are stockings on her feet now, but her shoes are still in her hands and her sister looks at her pointedly.

“I’m putting them on.” Isbelyn mutters, but brightens again as she looks up, “oh, please tell me you haven’t said anything interesting.”

“Who would dare?” Rhiale says dryly, though there there is a look that passes between the sisters, annoyed and amused and affectionate, before the younger girl goes back to peppering Penelo with endless questions.

“Did you go to the fete? We didn’t even get to land in the city. Our uncle bid us wait - I thought we should have gone anyway - and then we heard there’d been an attack. We saw the Ifrit over the palace. I heard the Lord Consul was nearly killed by rebels! Were you there? Did you see it?”

The first real opportunity she’s had, to set this all to rights. Yes, of course she had seen the attack, but not from anywhere near the palace. How is she supposed to say that she’s likely closer to knowing rebels than the men they’re rebelling against? That all she’s done is put on a fancy dress and refuse to tell the whole truth when she ought to. Once again, her silence proves a wicked ally, whatever’s on her face enough to be mistaken for discomfort, the strain of remembering what she’d only seen at a distance.

“Isbelyn, you shouldn’t bring up such terrible things. No one wants to talk about them.”

“ _I_ want to talk about them,” the girl says, crossing her arms with a huff, leaning back heavily as her sister continues to glare. Penelo can see Rhiale fight to keep from rolling her eyes, determinedly searching for a more polite topic, or at least one with fewer attempted murders.

“So, how long have you and Lord Larsa been acquainted?”

At least this she can explain. Penelo is not so naive to think the question mere politeness, and no doubt Archades is even worse than Rabanastre about such matters of decorum, lords and ladies walking about unchaperoned.

“No more than a few hours, truly. You see, I was kidnapped…”

“ _Kidnapped_?! How marvelous!”

“ _Isbi_!”

“It can’t be my fault if _she’s_ the one who was kidnapped!” Isbelyn wails defiantly, pointing at Penelo, who can only shrug. Rhiale simply gives up then, her pretty face pressed into her pretty gloves and if she’s where Penelo’s been - picking bits of tomato out of Vaan’s hair as any number of vaguely known children wreak merry havoc through their kitchen - then she’s likely stifling a scream.

“Oh, you _have_ to tell us, now,” the younger girl says, pressing the advantage, “you must, you absolutely must.”

So Penelo does, as much to try and get everything in the proper order, to convince herself that yes, it’s actually still happening. She excises bits and pieces from her life in Rabanastre, and tries not to overdramatize the rest, but Isbelyn is on the edge of her seat before she’s even reached the mines, and mentioning sky pirates causes the girl to gasp in delight, interrupting with what seems to be every story she’s ever heard of adventures in the clouds. Penelo is just speaking of her time with Larsa in the city, when she is interrupted by the sudden appearance of a rather old moogle, fluttering carefully through the air with a tea tray. Rhiale is on her feet instantly, crossing the distance between them.

“Sofi, please, do not put yourself out on our account,” she says gently, taking the tray, “I am perfectly capable of making tea.”

The moogle tuts gently, as if the idea is utterly absurd, and pauses to give Penelo a genteel bow. Making sure they have all that they might need, she flutters away to a corner, settling herself down in a cozy chair near the window.

“Sofi has been our nursemaid all our lives, my sister and I,” Rhiale says, lifting the lid to check how far the tea has steeped, “She is family, especially now. I rather hope… oh, but that isn’t important. You were speaking of Bhujerba.”

“If you did not stop me, I think I would go on forever,” Penelo smiles, “have you been there?”

“Only recently, with our Uncle.”

“He duels, you know? Uncle does.” Isbelyn says from around a mouthful of icing, a second small cake in her other hand before she’s even finished the first. Rhiale pulls the rest of them quickly out of her reach. “It’s how he got that scar. He’s not supposed to - it’s a law, but they all do it anyway. We shouldn’t talk about it, of course,” the girl grins, obviously only interested in what she’s not supposed to talk about, believing that lowering her voice theatrically is the same as being secretive. “I heard he put his sword right through a man once, and couldn’t get it out again. It got stuck! Do you think that could really happen?”

“Isbi! Ladies do not - _no one_ speaks of such things. Uncle has done us a great honor and kindness, and we owe him our utmost respect.”

“ _He’s_ the one who made such a big deal of it, didn’t he? I don’t know why he had to bring you here to marry anyway,” the younger girl says, “there were plenty of eligible bachelors back home, “ an evil smirk in Penelo’s direction, deliberately pressing her luck, “My sister doesn’t want to marry a nobleman, you know. She wants to be ravished by sky pirates.”

“You insufferable little wretch!” Rhiale yelps, making a very undignified lunge at her sister, who laughs, jumping off the couch and out of reach. Unfortunately, doing so also upends her tea, splashing quite impressively across the front of her dress. Isbelyn freezes, looking down at the mess she’s caused, trying to think of a way to get out of it, and realizing she’s doomed all in the same moment.

“Oh… drat.” 

Penelo had thought the moogle asleep in the sun, but all at once Sofi is there, fluttering and scolding, herding Isbelyn into another room to change. Rhiale lets out a deep sigh, raising a hand to her carefully bound-up hair only to stop at the last moment, and Penelo sees her jaw clench in frustration. As if all of this is not as familiar to her as it should be.

“Ah, please… you don’t have to…” the girl protests, as Penelo kneels down, reaching for the teacup. Thankfully unbroken, and the cloth beneath the tray takes care of the worst of the mess, the carpet too dark to show a stain.

“Already done,” she says, and though she doubts it was the proper thing for a lady to do Rhiale doesn’t seem to think the less of her for it. If anything, the girl seems to relax a bit, and her expression shifts, less serene but more warm and honest. It must be very tiring, having to remember how to act and what to do and what not to do. How to fold up every emotion into only what is pretty, or at least easy to ignore. 

“Thank you. I must apologize once more for my terribly silly sister,” Rhiale says, rubbing gently at one temple with her fingertip, “she does not understand the… delicacy of our current situation.”

“I think I know how she feels,” Penelo says, “this is hardly where I expected to find myself today.”

“Isbi does not have half your excuse. The past two years have spoiled her, she’s grown too well accustomed to not being out in society. I have neglected my responsibilities, and find myself with a ill-mannered yensa in place of a sister.”

“I thought…” Penelo catches herself, before she can ask why a noble girl wouldn’t have tutors for that, though what she blurts out is hardly more polite. “You are to marry, she said. In Dalmasca?”

Rhiale pales, and looks away.

“I’m sorry.” Penelo says, “I didn’t mean-”

“Oh, there’s no need for apologies,” The girl turns back, and smiles, but it’s that gracious smile again, all her fears once again hidden away. “Yes, I am to be married. My uncle could have begun negotiations at the fete, even, if he approved of the match. Unfortunately, circumstances have led to this… unfortunate delay. I do not know when…” Rhiale’s voice trembles, and she swallows hard, and Penelo thinks she is holding onto her smile through pure force of will. “I imagine my uncle wished for me to be cleverer than I am, and find out more about you. How you are connected to Lord Larsa, and what is happening in Rabanastre, so that he might seek the Lord Consul's favor.”

“I don’t know what’s happening in the city, or if anyone does,” Penelo says, “… but I’m not sure that you’ll be safe there.”

Rhiale laughs, but it’s a brittle, colorless sound. “I imagine I will seem quite brave then, to return so quickly. Do Dalmascan men prefer their wives to be brave? If nothing else, I do suppose there will be less competition now than later.”

She is completely terrified. Penelo wonders how it took her so long to see it - but then, that’s what the dress is for, and the color on her cheeks and the ornaments in her hair. A perfect Archadian lady with perfect Archadian manners, to hide the truth that she is a frightened girl trying to be brave for her sister’s sake, preparing to be married to a stranger who only matters as far as he can improve her uncle’s prospects.

Penelo reaches out then, like she’d do for anyone back home, to give Rhiale’s hand a comforting squeeze. The girl looks up at her, surprise quickly shifting to gratitude and then Isbelyn charges back into the room, wearing a different gown she might well ruin in some even more spectacular way, and they go back to pretending that nothing at all is the matter.


	6. Chapter 6

Isbelyn switches topics faster in a minute than most can manage in an hour, so it doesn’t take long for the matter of dancing to come up. Of course it is as popular in Archadia as in Dalmasca, though like everything else, far more strict and structured there.

“You dance? Rhiale, you can play for us, and Penelo will show us the steps they have in Rabanastre.”

The room has a small piano, so ornately painted that it seemed to be just another decoration, but it manages a merry tune and Rhiale is happy to acquiesce to anything that will keep her sister occupied and out of trouble. Penelo still takes the extra time to move the most fragile-looking furniture well out of the way.

Time passes quite happily after that, the music bright and cheerful and Penelo never as certain of the world as when she’s dancing - wherever she is, it’s as good as home. Isbelyn is, unsurprisingly, an eager and exuberant student. Penelo leads her through a few of the simper steps of old Dalmascan standards, the loose and graceful movements a little at odds with the formal music - she misses the drums, misses bells and firelight, this the kind of dance that ought to be done on bare sand beneath a wide-open sky. 

She’s focused on her steps, on making sure Isbelyn can follow, so it takes a moment to notice when the song ends. Rhiale is watching her, with a small smile on her face. Penelo hopes it is some comfort for her, that her new life in a strange land might not be so bad, if there is still dancing. 

Eventually, they move back into the Archadian steps, and though a pair of dancers can hardly get away with it they still _allemande_ and _galliarde_ up and down the room, Isbelyn preferring to leap her way into the turns - and anywhere else she can get away with it - while Penelo tries a few fancier flourishes and spins, though most get slowed down to a crawl anyway when Isbelyn tries to copy her. 

It isn’t slow going with the Rozarrian _tarantella_ , or what she can manage of it between her bare feet and the tightly-bound dress. The younger girl gives up early, but soon Rhiale is playing as fast as she can as Penelo dances. The two of them chasing each other, footsteps and staccato notes until they are both left catching their breath as Isbelyn claps and cheers.

“You’re _amazing_! Oh, I wish you’d been there to teach me. The last instructor we had nearly knocked me into a hedge,” Isbelyn says, with all the scorn she can muster, “and he kept _stepping_ on my _toes._ ”

“Very well done,” Rhiale agrees, “I think there will be many girls quite cross with you, Penelo, when Lord Larsa sees no need to dance with them anymore.”

A shame she’s not standing in front of a mirror, to see that thought hit her. Dancing at court. In Archades. 

It certainly gives more weight to the notion that none of this is happening, that Penelo’s been hit with sunstroke and even now is wandering some bit of the Estersand, talking to passing lizards about sky pirates and airships and how she’ll dance all night with the Emperor’s son, right before they make her Queen of the Universe.

“I think…” Searching for anything sensible to say, Penelo rubs a thumb along the edge of her gown, surprised at how loose the fabric hangs, “well, I will certainly need to find another dress for that day. I fear I may have danced this one out.”

Her wrap is coming undone in a dozen places, meant for more sedate affairs and not what she’d been up to, certainly not at six-eighths time. It isn’t a quick fix either, Penelo can all but hear her mother chiding that she’ll look a utter wreck if she doesn’t unwind it all and start entirely from scratch.

“Oh, Rhia - you can have Penelo show you how to wear it! You did want to know, right?” Isbelyn nearly bounces with excitement. “We’ll just put you up in one of ours. My sister has plenty to spare.”

“I don’t…” Rhiale says, “I mean… if it would not be too much trouble.”

What she really means is _help me_ , and so soon Penelo is up to her elbows in dresses, silks and satins of all colors. Drawing out dress after dress, with matching gloves and shoes and she acquiesces to the corset but refuses anything that requires a bustle no matter how Isbelyn huffs at her.

“I’m glad that we are about the same size,” Rhiale says, lacing up the ties, “this is just for a bit of support, tell me if it hurts and I’ll loosen it. Last season the girls were snapping themselves in half, but thankfully now the fashion is a bit less severe.”

“I’ve never worn one before.” Penelo says, and looks down, unsurprised to find she does not magically fill out the top the way Rhiale did, “I don’t suppose you have a curve or two I could borrow?”

“That’s what the bustle is for,” Isbelyn says unhelpfully.

“You whine whenever you think you might have to wear one, Isbi, so stop trying to pawn them off on everyone else.” Rhiale scolds, finishing with the ties and stepping back to give her handiwork a look. 

“So, did you find a dress to your liking?”

“They’re all very pretty.” Penelo says helplessly, “but I’m not sure… I mean…”

“The gold one,” Isbelyn says, making the decision for her, and she sounds so certain Penelo thinks she might as well agree.

“With the blue? But the green dress is quite lovely, too.” Rhiale tips her head to the side, trying to imagine Penelo into it.

“ _That_ shade of blue is Lord Larsa’s favorite color.” Isbelyn says.

“Every shade of blue is Lord Larsa’s favorite color.” Rhiale rolls her eyes, “and every girl in Archades knows how best to trap his heart.”

“He likes chocobos,” Penelo says, though that is not likely to trap any hearts.

“Well then, Isbi’s right. It will have to be the gold.”

The dress is sleeveless, the bodice in smooth, golden satin to a tapered waist, simple but elegant. The long skirt is a light blue, stitched with lacy patterns of gold embroidery. It looks very fancy, but Penelo is surprised at how easily she can move, turning this way and that in the wide mirror as if she’s Isbelyn’s age. Rhiale sits her down, and it isn’t long before her hair is braided up tight, so carefully bound she’s afraid to even touch it. It’s difficult to look away from her reflection, still herself and yet now transformed, looking refined, more elegant than she’d ever imagined she could.

“Oh, no. I couldn’t…” Penelo says, as Rhiale drops a necklace into place at her throat. An aquamarine, square-cut and brilliant, the same color blue as her skirts.

“I would be a poor hostess indeed, to leave you half-finished. Of course you must borrow it.” Rhiale shuffles through a small box on the table, “I have earrings to match. We could pierce your ears, if you like?”

“You should,” Isbelyn says, “you really should. It would look lovely. Don’t worry, Rhia did mine for me. It hardly hurts at all.”

It isn’t a matter of liking, or looking lovely, as much as being distracted, overwhelmed by the unexpected generosity. Of knowing she needs to tell the truth and _now_ … except Rhiale wouldn’t want her to touch anything more if she knew where Penelo really came from. All of this has to stop before it can get any worse and yet - and yet she cannot bring herself to speak, and in a few moments more she’s wearing earrings to match the necklace. Only the faintest bit of pain when she brings her fingers up to her ears, and soon even that fades away.

“I believe it’s your turn?” Penelo offers, when it seems there’s nothing more to be done. Rhiale looks suddenly much less confident, twisting a ring on her finger as if wishing it were a teleport stone.

“You have to, Rhia.” Isbelyn says, “after you made such a mangle of the last one Uncle said he wouldn’t buy you another.”

“He bought you those?” Penelo says, staring once more at the racks and racks of gowns, “all of them?”

“It is a worthy investment,” Rhiale says, no emotion in the words but she does not look up when she speaks. “Uncle is very kind.”

Isbelyn helps her sister out of her dress, and then out of the layers of petticoats beneath, into the simple underlayer Penelo’s set out for her. Rhiale’s eyes are wide, rubbing at her bare shoulders shyly. 

“My goodness, so little. It feels like I’m not wearing anything at all.”

“You weren’t, the last time you tried to put it on,” Isbelyn says, giggling.

“Enough out of you,” Rhiale says, shooing her sister to the nearby divan, and Penelo can’t help but smile as she surveys the long yards of fabric, as if they are pieces of some great puzzle box or a scroll of violently cryptic spellcraft, just waiting for the chance to singe her fingertips.

“It’s not as bad as all that, I promise,” Penelo says, and begins the process of wrapping her into her gown. Rhiale is attentive, following every instruction slowly and carefully, and it is only a lack of training that leads to a few lumps, one or two folds that don’t quite want to stay in place. 

Penelo can’t help but wonder about the cloth merchants in Migelo’s circles, and the potential profits of incorporating Archadian motifs into Dalmascan dresses, if there are to be more moments like these to be had. Maybe even a chance for her to give more demonstrations, should the fashion become truly popular. Judging by the girl’s smile, it seems a possibility.

“My goodness,” Rhiale says, turning to look at her handiwork in the mirror, “look at me. I suppose all is not lost, after all.”

“We can try it again, if you like,” Penelo says, and then she is holding on to one end of the fabric as Rhiale slowly spins herself free. Isbelyn has propped herself up against the armrest of the couch, yawning once and again, too much dancing and too many cakes finally catching up with her.

“If you cannot find a husband in Rabanastre, Rhia,” she murmurs, “maybe you can marry the Lord Consul instead.“

“… or I might elope with the west wind, if I wished to be sensible,” she says, frowning in concentration as she tries to remember how much fabric the third fold catches up.

“The Lord Consul isn’t married?” Penelo says, surprised. 

“No,” Rhiale says, and she’s lost her place again, unfolding the fabric to start once more. “Of course, there has always been speculation over this alliance or that. Whatever it is he’s holding out for, but it has been a long time now, and House Solidor…”

Rhiale trails off, just like the soldiers at the gates and every other Archadian who knows anything about Vayne Solidor. Larsa is the only one Penelo’s met yet who doesn’t get that strange, cautious look when he mentions his House. The only one to speak of his brother as if there isn’t some hidden price to be paid.

“It will be quite an… interesting life, I imagine, for the girl that House claims for their own,” Rhiale says. “Of course, House Marcalis has never merited any special attention of the throne. This is the first that I have been on the same ship as any of the Imperial family.”

“House Marcalis?” Penelo’s curious, that’s not the name the girl said before. With no idea what might cause offense, she tries to take it slow, “… and that is… your House?”

“Yes… and no.” Rhiale says, “we are here under my Uncle’s name and favor, Isbi and I. A sponsorship in House Tibsen, but that is not permanent,” Rhiale loses her hold on the fabric again, this time only into the second fold, and she sighs heavily. “My uncle seeks offers for my hand - or more accurately, the highest bid for entry to our House. When I am wed, it will be under the Marcalis name. Our own name once more, and forever on. An incentive, I suppose, to push things forward as quickly as we can.”

An entire world in that explanation that Penelo cannot begin to measure. Even if she were a Dalmascan of title, the codes and laws of Archadia are not meant for outsiders to understand. Maybe comparable to Migelo’s trickiest trading with his most elusive desert clients, complicated agreements and implicit obligations, and all of that magnified by wealth and title and history. Penelo wonders what would happen to Rhiale’s name, if she did not marry, or not well enough to suit her uncle’s ambitions. 

“House Marcalis can trace our lineage nearly as far back as the Galtean Alliance, before the founding of the Empire. Our family’s lands are a jewel in the northern crown of Archadia,” Rhiale smiles, both proud and amused, “which means they are very beautiful for being so small - oh _curse it_!” she mutters, as once again the folds melt away in her hands. “I really ought to just have you teach Sofi, and we might be done with this before nightfall.”

“I promise it gets easier,” Penelo says, taking the fabric from her, and Rhiale lets it go, enough practice for one day, “it took me a long time to learn. I would have studied much harder, if I’d known I would have to try and teach it.”

“Am I expected to wear this every day?”

“No, not usually. It depends on where you are, inside the city or out, and for what occasion.” Penelo says, tucking and wrapping the girl into place, only slightly hindered by her own gown. “I promise you, there’s nothing at all wrong with the dresses you have brought.”

“Uncle thought as much. He said I would be very… novel, even as I am,” Rhiale says, turning to examine Penelo’s handiwork in the mirror, hands lightly smoothing over the soft fabric. “Look at that. It’s perfect. I think I hate you a little now.”

Penelo laughs. They’re both looking at her reflection - and the pronounced difference between the cold reserve of her still-caged hair and the gentler folds of the dress. 

It takes a little work to get the ornament free from her hair without taking her whole head with it - Penelo is shocked by how much the headpiece weighs, though the other girl had never seemed to notice it. Once Rhiale’s hair is loose, it is easy enough to unplait her braids into a less severe style. The girl’s hair is very long, nearly to her waist, a rich, deep brown that shimmers in the light. If there were a dozen such girls looking for husbands in Dalmasca, Penelo still thinks Rhiale would do quite well for herself.

“Oh, your hair’s all down,” Isbelyn murmurs sleepily, head in her arms on the end of the couch and just barely awake, “You look like mother, Rhia.”

“Do I now?” Rhiale says, with a wistful, sad little smile, still looking at her reflection. Penelo only realizes her hands have gone still when the girl looks up at her. 

“You would think me very wicked, if I told you I was grateful when we were forced to leave Rabanastre,” Rhiale says, softly. “I do not mean that I was glad anyone was hurt, of course, and it is not that I do not wish to marry…” 

Except that if it was true, she wouldn’t be crying. The tears come suddenly and silently, such a perfectly composed collapse that Penelo cannot imagine it is the first time. That this is often where Rhiale finds herself when she is alone, when her sister is asleep and she does not have to pretend to be strong.

“Forgive me,” she whispers around the barest breath of a sob, lips pressed together and eyes squeezed tight. Penelo puts a hand on her shoulder and the girl leans against her and they stay like that for a while, until Rhiale’s breathing evens out and she’s dabbing at her eyes carefully with her fingertips. Penelo wishes she had Balthier’s handkerchief to offer, but that had been in the pocket of her old clothes and she doubts she’ll ever see those again.

“There’s no one else who can help you?” 

Rhiale shakes her head, swallowing hard until her voice is back under control.

“Our lands were always too small to make much money with tenants. Father had his investments, his business partners, and when it seemed the war might… he went out to make arrangements. Mother went with him, and my brother, to our other estate… in Nabudis.” 

No other word in the world explains itself so completely.

“I should have gone with him, and Isbi too, but I fell ill at the last moment. I tell myself that they would have been happy that we survived. That it wouldn’t have been easier…” Rhiale shakes her head. “Listen to me, speaking as if you don’t know about war. As if we aren’t the ones mucking about in Dalmasca, when we ought to have stayed home. If only everyone had just stayed home.”

Penelo isn’t sure what she’d been expecting, aware that there was some complication in the other girl’s life, but she’d never thought she would understand it quite so well. At least Migelo has never tried to marry her off, or even suggested the notion. She wonders if anyone has ever asked him, or if her father had been made an offer. It happens now and then, arranged marriages long before anyone is even of age. It’s strange to think of such a choice as any kind of luxury, but it’s true - at least Penelo’s life is still her own.

“I am not yet of the age to inherit, and even if I were, we lost so much with Nabudis. We do not have the money to keep up our lands, and my sister will need a debut soon enough, and I will _not_ see her-” Rhiale cuts herself off again, but Penelo can finish the thought well enough. If nothing else, all this will ensure Isbelyn is not set upon the same path someday. “The title I can offer will attract a husband wealthy enough to keep the Marcalis lands as our own. I must marry and marry well, for my House and my sister, and that must satisfy. It will satisfy.”

Optimistic, honorable words, in the tone of someone preparing for her execution. Penelo slowly, gently undoes the simple braids she’s made in favor of a more complicated style, hoping the gentle work will serve as comfort, distraction or both.

“I hope, whatever happens, that you might come to look upon Dalmasca as your home.  It is different from Archadia, but we have our fair share of beauty.”

“Tell me?” Rhiale says, wanting very much to be convinced.

“I have seen the sunrise over the desert nearly every day of my life, and it still amazes me. The shades of rose and gold, as the blue-gray of night fades away, until the whole world just… glows. In the right places, you can hear the sands sing in the wind, it’s so still. Many of the estates have rooftop terraces, you can look out over the city walls, and see wild chocobos running across the sands.” Penelo can imagine exactly what kind of home the girl will end up as mistress of, if this Baron Tibsen is as good as he claims. “If you marry a businessman, you will likely give many parties for his friends and clients. We are fond of such celebrations in Rabanastre, though not as formal as what you’re used to. I promise you won’t lack for company, or entertainment.”

“I wouldn’t know how to… I mean, you’ve seen me try to dress myself.” Rhiale laughs weakly. “I mean… what if,” and her voice goes very small and thin, “what if they don’t like me?”

“Well, I’ve only known you a few hours, and I like you,” Penelo says, “although that could be because I’m wearing all your jewelry.”

Rhiale turns, looking up at her with a real smile now. “You are very kind, Penelo, and you are right. I should not be so afraid, not if Rabanastre has sent you to welcome me. I hope that we will be even better friends from now on.”

Penelo doesn’t have the chance to think up a lie, a promise she can’t keep even if she wants to, when a knock at the door makes them both jump. Sofi is across the room before they’re both even standing, and Penelo tenses up again at the sight of a lone soldier, anonymous in his armor. At least it isn’t the Judge Magister. Despite the helm, she’s almost certain he’s staring at them, baffled by the Archadian and Dalmascan who have suddenly switched wardrobes.

“May we help you, sir?” Rhiale says, and he shakes himself from his surprise.

“Ladies,” he bows, and Penelo tries not to flinch when he turns to address her, “Milady Penelo, Lord Larsa has sent me with his apologies, but there are a few unexpected complications he must attend to before he is able to leave for Rabanastre.”

He’s still not done with the merchants? Or, more likely, the merchants aren’t done with him. It’s hard to believe she’s coming out of this with the better deal, but it certainly seems that way now. Before she can even ask where they are or if they’ve reached the border of Dalmasca, Penelo feels the ship start to slow. 

“It is Lord Larsa’s request that we escort you down to the city, where he will rejoin you as soon as he is able.”

Isbelyn is still asleep, and Rhiale has little time to do more than clasp Penelo’s hands in her own and smile, wishing her luck and a safe journey. and then she’s on her own again, before she can even ask the other girl to join her. Or to ask to stay, or think of any other plan that doesn’t leave her once more surrounded by Archadian soldiers, with every optimistic, encouraging word she’s just said seeming to taunt her now. All Penelo knows is that when they reach the ground she has to escape, as quick and quiet as she can manage while wearing a full-length gown.

———————————————

Catching sight of Rabanastre through the window of the transport destroys any fleeting remnants of whatever fantasies she’s been playing at, and the guard at her side is a perfect reminder of the consequences, should she wish to forget again. Penelo has to get carefully out of the borrowed dress and the borrowed jewels and find some way of sending them quickly back to their proper owner.

It ought to be easy to disappear, or if not easy than at least with the odds in her favor. Certainly, Penelo knows the city better than any guard possibly could, and should they turn their backs but for a moment it will be enough to sneak away. 

It will be simple enough to write a formal apology to Rhiale and Larsa, explaining what happened and begging their forgiveness for the misunderstanding. As long as all is accounted for, it should go no further than that. Once they realize she’s a nobody, it will be easy enough for them to forget they’d ever heard of her. Penelo can go back to the shop, Vaan will find his way home and life will go on as it has been. The next time he has some marvelous idea for freedom or revenge or honor, Penelo will just lock him in the storage closet until he stops coming up with plans.

It’s sensible, and a course of action she can actually follow through on the moment they touch down - except that the transport does not stop at the aerodrome. The merchants had said it was closed since the Lord Consul’s arrival, and it has only been a day and a half since then, impossible as that might seem. Penelo feels her heart sink and her hopes follow as the transport ship descends right into the palace grounds instead, a landing space cleared away well inside the walls.

There are soldiers everywhere, and Penelo has to stop herself twice from wringing the fine gloves right off her hands, escorted into the shadow of the palace and then into the building itself. She is shown into a richly appointed room, with a window that opens on an inner, terraced courtyard, the very center of the palace grounds. Dalmasca’s tapestries grace the walls and there are familiar patterns in the tile floors. Penelo might even know the person responsible for the bowl of fruit that sits on a side table but she might as well be back in the sky, for how close it puts her toward getting home.

She paces quietly up and down, heart thumping, trying to map out the palace in her mind, or at least her best guess. Penelo’s never actually been inside, never closer than one of the storehouses near to the kitchens, when her father and Migelo had offered their services for the wedding feast. The traditional dishes of Nabradia had been just different enough to send everyone in the city scrambling for the right ingredients in the largest amounts they could find. 

Penelo’s father had insisted she enjoy herself rather than help, but by the end of the day Penelo had run out of things to see, do or eat, and there’d still been no sign of him. She’d finally found him on the floor of the storehouse, a space that had been tightly packed in the morning practically empty to the roof beams. He’d been flat on his back with Migelo beside him, too exhausted to even think of moving. Penelo had brought them wine, and they’d raised the glasses above their heads in a blind toast, never moving an inch more than they’d had to.

It’s one of her favorite memories, but of little help now. Penelo’s hands clench into frustrated fists, no closer to a way out and she’s suddenly very weary of always having to have a plan. Sick of being dragged about by everyone who thinks they have a right, never knowing what might happen next and she is tired most of all of it always ending here, of being helpless and afraid.

Penelo steels herself, exhales slowly, and opens the door. The guard outside stands at attention, staring straight ahead, though as she steps out he addresses her.

“Is there a problem, milady?”

“No, no problem. I would like to see a bit more of the palace, is all.”

“Of course, milady. If you would like an escort…”

“I’ll be fine, thank you.”

It can’t be that easy, even if she is the guest of Larsa Solidor, but Penelo doesn’t let her disbelief show. Nobles never look surprised by being able to do whatever they want. She knows how an Archadian lady is supposed to move, so Penelo makes her way down the hall, stiff-backed and graceful and entirely unhurried, as if this is all exactly as she’d expected it to be. 

It’s difficult not to crane her neck and stare, to wonder where the throne room might be. Where Princess Ashelia’s rooms were, and what other kings and leaders might have once walked the halls she’s moving through now. Still, there is a goal for her to reach, and she needs to move quickly, before her luck has a chance to fail. So far, none of soldiers have said anything to her. It will be the guards at the exits who pose the most serious problem, but Penelo can claim some emergency, certainly. Leave all her most gracious apologies for Larsa - and it’s surprising, really, how much she truly _will_ miss him. It had been fun to talk with him in Bhujerba, and would be just as much fun to show him her city, as he'd intended. If there were some way… but there’s _not_ a way, and every moment she stays here is only a risk to herself, and everyone she knows. 

A few more turns and she’s found an empty hall. Penelo fights to keep her pace slow and steady. If she’s lucky, she’s nearly there, a door to an outer courtyard and from there just a few steps to the walls, and then the street. If the guards try to stop her, maybe she’ll just run and hope for the best.

A door opens around the final corner just before she can reach it, and she hears the sound of footsteps coming toward her, fast.

“Oh, it’s unforgivably reckless. One can only imagine where he acquired the habit.” A heavy sigh. “I’m amazed you didn’t give them all weapons first, just to make it a proper challenge.”

“If I shut myself away, they’ll think they actually accomplished something. Fear _is_ the weapon, Cid. If it’s to be my hesitation or my blood, they’re free to paint the walls with it. But I’m not about to-”

Penelo thinks that she knows that voice, in a way that pins her to the spot before she even knows quite why. Before the two men turn the corner, and she sees that the one in the lead is the Lord Consul. Vayne Solidor.

He stops. The other man stops as well, though Penelo only sees him as the vaguest blur in her periphery. 

Vayne takes her in with a single glance, like she always imagined he would. A fancy dress is no armor against it - she might as well be stripped bare. He seems surprised, but only a little bit, curious and quietly amused in a way she realizes she’s seen before. Larsa’s gaze is very much like this - _so they are brothers, after all_ \- Penelo thinks, stupidly, except that the Lord Consul’s surprise quickly turns to a cool regard. The way that snakes look at mice, savoring the inevitable.

It’s not fair. It’s just not fair, this close to escape. With so long since she’s had anything of substance to eat and even longer since she’s slept. Tossed from country to country, ground to sky and back again, as if she’s anyone of importance. Who is she, to stand here now, knowing she ought to do the smart thing, or the brave thing, but with no idea of what that’s supposed to be? 

The only thing she knows for sure is that her fingertips have gone cold and tingling, and that what she’s feeling more than anything in this impossible moment is a strange sense of relief. This is as bad as it can ever possibly get, this is everything she’s ever feared the most, and it’s finally happening so at least she doesn’t have to worry anymore.

The Lord Consul speaks, but Penelo’s rather glad she can’t hear him past the sudden roaring in her ears, as the world politely fades away.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will make very little sense without reading the large canon diversion of 'A Permanent Blur...'

Vayne wakes with the notion that he’s been dreaming one of Cid’s dreams by accident. A landscape of complicated calculations and delicate adjustments, with all the secrets of the universe well within his reach. The truth of it all is beautiful and elegant, and so simple that he wants to laugh, but even before he can open his eyes the best is already gone, the rest blurred and fading fast. It’s hardly the first time he’s woke in the middle of some complicated thought, working out the nuances of a speech or a difficult proposal. Except it hadn’t been that sort of problem - and he’s not staring at the ceiling of his room, or even one of the spare rooms at Draklor.

He’s covered in only a thin blanket, which would not be nearly enough if he were in Archades but he is not - ah yes, Dalmasca. The place the Senate and the Emperor have finally decided to be rid of him, at least for as long as they can.

_People of Rabanastre, we’ve occupied your homeland so they'd have somewhere to put me. My sincerest apologies._

He reaches up to rub a hand over his eyes, only to stop instantly at the wave of cold, piercing agony that ripples from shoulder to fingertip, enough that his breath catches in the wake of it. Vayne remembers then the reason he’d woken up thinking so hard - because the world’s going to end, and he’s the only one who knows it.

_The Dynast-King. You walked with the Dynast-King._

If he wished, it would be simple enough to call it a dream, some aftermath of the battle and those last few jumbled hours more than enough to conjure such a fantasy. He should put it aside, the application of just little common sense against such a ridiculous suggestion whittling it down until it might be easily ignored.

Unfortunately, if Vayne wishes to be so contrary, there’s the counter-argument of a full round’s worth of Midlight Shard still burning in his shoulder. The reminder that none of this started in the realm of the familiar or the sane, so there is no reason to expect it now. It does not do for great men to overlook matters of prophecy, though from what Vayne knows neither action or inaction may end in his favor.

If this does not end in his favor, then Archadia is no more.

He dresses as quickly as he can with his shoulder still throbbing, even turning his head more of a challenge than it ought be. The room is somewhat stuffy - no windows, and given all that’s happened he can hardly blame whoever took such precautions, but with a bit of luck he can change that sooner rather than later. The sunrises in Archades can be nearly scandalous in their beauty, and it will be interesting to see how his new city compares. 

At least it is still early, he’s lost barely half a day and with any luck most of that has still been too chaotic for anyone else to accomplish much.

“My lord,” a soft voice says, as soon as he opens his door. A soldier, or at least the appearance of one. Vayne has not had a chance to develop many contacts in Rabanastre, at least none that he is sure to trust, but there is still a great deal of use in those he has brought with him. “You wished for news of Nalbina.”

_By the gods, Cid, but your boy works fast._

“Tell me.”

“We have report of an escape. Four convicts, out of the prison through the underground passages. No sign of them yet, but should they survive, we assume they will return to Rabanastre.”

“Four?”

“Three recent arrivals - and an unnamed prisoner from the lower levels. One under Judge Magister Gabranth’s domain.”

 _Works fast and plays dirty._ No question, of just who that unknown prisoner might be. It’s rather ambitious for Balthier’s first move, but it certainly makes his intentions clear. Vayne does not envy anyone in the same room as Gabranth, when he discovers his brother’s unexpected departure.

“What of the lady… Amalia, was it?”

He’s not even sure why he bothers with the charade, although if that attack was the very best she could manage after two years of planning, Princess Ashelia might as well stay in her grave. 

“Well sequestered aboard the _Ifrit_. It has not been yet decided, if the Emperor will choose to keep her outside Archades to be questioned. Judge Magister Ghis has been somewhat… circumspect regarding her capture, and the acquisition of the Dusk Shard.”

Of course he has. What is the value of a pat on the head when the entire Empire - if not the world itself - lies within his reach? 

Now there’s a devil’s bargain - would he prefer to see Archadia utterly undone by the Princess of Dalmasca, or watch what the Empire would become, were the Judge Magister allowed to remake it as he saw fit?

_Do be quick about this, Balthier. Ghis is already too fond of his ambitions._

Where will they go, once the sky pirate enacts his daring rescue? Rozarria, perhaps? Or will the princess truly believe Ondore has been waiting to help her? Vayne hopes so, with a little more spite than is dignified. It’s only fair, if everyone else is to be dragged into this then the Marquis deserves to lose his share of sleep as well.

Ondore will use her. There is no reason to think him ignorant of a single circumstance, and so he will use the girl to get whatever she is capable of bringing him - an alliance with Rozarria? A mandate for war from Bur-Omisace, giving Bhujerba all but the obligation to secede?

No - the Dawn Shard. The Marquis will send her to fetch it for him, and why not? Vayne is hardly the only one certain it lies within Raithwall’s tomb, that has been common conjecture for longer than he’s been alive. Every country has sent teams to that crypt, feigning archeological studies or historical research, even a convoluted excuse for weapons testing. All of them so eager - save King Raminas, who needed to send no one.

_“It is no power, only folly and… heartbreak past enduring.”_

He had died, rather than sacrifice his enemies for victory. All of Archadia owes him their lives, and none of them will ever know to be grateful. Vayne cannot pay that back - there is no paying that back. The only thing he can do now is to be the best steward he can with the time that he has - and destroy the Sun-Cryst, before it can do any more damage to the world.

Before Ashelia of Dalmasca finds it, and makes a ruin of them all.

“Judge Magister Gabranth has reached my brother in Bhujerba?”

“Yes, milord.”

At least Larsa will be there, then, to give the man a duty to attend to, and mitigate the worst of his moods. 

The ultimate fate of fon Rosenberg had always been a loose end, and Vayne has never been fond of those. But the Emperor had left it entirely in his hands - did not wish to hear the name Nalbina in the court - and Vayne hesitated to discard anything that might guard from future treachery. Gabranth had never stated it outright - never stated anything outright - but it was very clear that he wished for his brother to suffer a great deal further than what a simple death could bring. Stripping his brother of honor and home and all hope was still not quite enough to balance the scales between them. 

Vayne is familiar with the long borders of time and history that enmity can draw, and even so Gabranth’s bitter hate is a vast domain. He has never seen reason to press the issue - if a measure of the Judge Magister’s loyalty could be bought at so spare a price, then why not let him gnaw and worry at the bones of his brother’s defeat for as long as he wished? 

It’s almost amusing, in a way. Gabranth is only half-Archadian, though Landis has long since been absorbed into the Empire. A distinction without merit, for anyone less than a Judge Magister. If he had not fought so hard to reach so high, no one would have cause or care to judge him wanting. It is his pride alone that wounds him, his obsession with revenge that drives him, and also what might prove to do him the greatest harm.

If that does not make him a true Archadian than nothing will. 

“Where is Doctor Cid?”

“In the air as we speak. He should reach Rabanastre no later than midday.” The slightest bit of warmth edges the formal tone. “The doctor asked for me to relay a personal message.”

“Oh, did he now?”

“He wished to say, ‘I told you so.’”

“A sage for the ages,” Vayne says, nearly smirking. He wonders if Cid had his bags already packed, just waiting for the call. “Keep me informed on the situation aboard the _Ifrit_ , or if the Marquis should do anything of interest. Have you any news of Rabanastre?”

“All quiet, for the moment. It seems many of those who were not captured have seen it wise to retreat elsewhere for now. The city is yours, Lord Consul.”

“Yes, well.” He doesn’t try to hide the smile now. “The day is yet young.”

—————————

The Imperial palace inspires a great deal of insularity for those nobles and courtiers who call it home. It is entirely possible to live one’s life without ever needing to step outside its doors, and certainly there is little need for anyone who lives in Tsenoble to consider venturing elsewhere.

A world of familiar faces and common understandings. Codes of conduct and manners that have barely changed a whit in over a hundred years. If not for the occasional murder or scandal, it would always be excruciatingly dull, instead of usually so. At least the nearest open window is rarely more than thirty feet away, when a boring conversation finally proves one too many to bear.

The palace at Rabanastre keeps far less to itself, if for no other reason than it shares common ground with the city and everyone in it. The city wears its history well, unlike Archades, which never seems to be as much itself as when it is half-constructed, or tearing bits and pieces down so it may begin anew.

However, it is just as obvious that the city has not needed to defend its walls from invaders for many years, nothing besides a bit of Jagd here and there to impede any real attack from the skies. If Rozarria were to push - well, Vayne has no doubt he could have his Eighth Fleet back with a simple request. The Emperor would surely allow it to defend their newest province, but that would also mean bringing at least one Judge Magister along to command it. Only the smallest step from there, to Gramis extending his most benevolent protection, and then Bergan would be reporting on his every word and deed, or at least as far as his vocabulary would allow.

Trading one leash for the next, and Vayne will not have it so. No one has set terms for him in a very long time, not in Archadia and certainly not here. 

His detractors no doubt assume he will spend his first days in Rabanastre lazing about like a proper Imperial ponce, throwing banquets and thinking up ways to ruin the citizens when he isn’t too busy dallying with the chambermaids. If he’s not a man for war and martial punishments, then it must be taxes and tariffs, Dalmasca paying heavily for the privilege of its subjugation. 

His allies… no, such optimism is pointless at present, but there is still a fastidious path Vayne might choose to walk, and curry some favor. A light breakfast in his study, perhaps scheduling presentations from some of the more agreeable guests at the fete. A slow, modest and carefully tempered entrance into the politics of Rabanastre, the actions of a sensible man who wishes to build a stable foundation.

Vayne steals a pear from the nearest bowl in the hall, has it done with in three bites and tosses the core into the bushes as he steps out into the gardens. If he waits, if he is prudent and careful and all those fine things, then this whole day will be nothing but restlessness, enduring false concerns for his well-being in a long, pointless dance of formality. All of his decisions will be made through second-hand information, from advisers who - for good or ill - wish to mitigate the information he’s receiving. If he’s going to live in Rabanastre by proxy, he might as well let them run everything.

It’s not worth being cautious, even if he wished to be. A single, well-cast spell will likely be enough to kill him now, perhaps even one intended to come to his aid. So truly, there is only one sensible avenue open to him - just his luck it also happens to be the most interesting one. 

Vayne moves toward one of the palace’s less impressive exits at speed, unsurprised at the double take that greets him upon arrival. 

“Good morning, gentlemen.”

“Ah… good morning, your Excellency.” The first soldier, at least, recovers quickly, snapping up to a professional attention even though he hadn’t been all that much at ease. The second soldier takes a little longer to get over his surprise, but is soon to follow suit.

“Good morning, Lord Consul. Is this an inspection?”

“I suppose that would be the responsible thing to do,” Vayne says, taking a moment to examine their post. The security here is certainly solid enough, for what it is, although it seems unlikely anyone would bother with such an infiltration when no one had yet determined that they’d discovered every secret route below the palace. Balthier and his companion had found their way in by skybike, which did not at all surprise him but suggested that the walls were all a perfunctory display of security at their best. Still, that was hardly the fault of these soldiers, their faceplates up now and nervously waiting for his approval. He really does need to do something about that full-armor requirement, and sooner rather than later.

“It seems all is as it should be. I believe we shall see no trouble from this quarter,” Vayne says, and keeps walking. He’s half expecting them to just let him go, assuming that he knows what he’s doing, and that it’s vastly more sensible than what it _looks_ like he’s doing, but a few steps away he hears a creak and shuffle, the hesitant clearing of a throat.

“Ah… sir? Is there something that you need?”

“Only a slight change of scenery. It seems it will be a fine day.”

“Yes, Lord Consul. Certainly, but…” The soldier is looking around for the guard that ought to be there, not quite sure that there’s one inexplicably hidden but waiting for him. Vayne imagines there will be a more than a bit of panicked rushing about in his absence. If not for his damned shoulder, he might have done a better job of it just going over the wall. “When should I tell them you’ll be back, sir?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t tell them anything until you have to.”

By the time the guard can think up an answer to that, Vayne’s already gone. He certainly pities ‘them’, whoever ‘they’ are, for having to endure the sort of ridiculous, irresponsible Lord Consul who’d just walk off alone into the streets.


	8. Chapter 8

Being a twice-successful fratricide has led to certain benefits, even beyond the simple matter of his own survival. At first, the Emperor hadn’t wished to be reminded of all that had occurred, so Vayne returned only to be tossed back into the distant countryside. Fostered off to a succession of noble families in this or that secluded corner of the Empire, save for those moments where Gramis had been paranoid enough to haul him back to the palace - an ornamental dog on too tight a leash. At the time, Vayne had not known what to think. Hadn’t he done exactly as he’d been required to do? What had he missed and where was the mistake? 

It was funny to think he’d ever been so naive, not to realize that success could easily be as grave an error as failure. Fortunately, there had been some good to come from the Emperor’s unseemly pangs of conscience. The families he’d been tossed to had little idea what of what to do with him, and the rumors of why he’d been sent away had arrived well before he’d touched down, so Vayne had mostly been left alone. Apart from the fear of being held responsible should he come to harm, no one actually cared what he did, and there was little they could do in any case but urge him to be cautious.

So he went out, wherever he might be, to see what the world had to tell him. Vayne walked through towns and villages, talking to farmers and smiths. He’d even helped out a baker for a week, before the duchess he’d been attached to caught word of it and had him hurried home. Vayne has always been curious, and it seemed to amuse the men and women he’d met more often than not, a noble-born boy asking so many questions, wanting to know how a stone wall went together, or what made one potion more potent than the next.

All his thoughts back then had been troubling ones - anything different was a relief, and the less familiar the better. Years have passed since he was that boy, and yet how little has truly changed.

Vayne has to be out here. Rabanastre is his city now, and this is exactly the gauntlet he threw down in that pretty little speech, that he wasn’t going to be some useless Archadian imbecile content to rule from a distance, unknown and unseen until it was time to make yet another fancy, meaningless pronouncement. A few hours on the streets where he can be seen and known won’t change the world, but at least it is not what anyone expects him to do, and Vayne will not be afraid - they do not deserve it.

The city is yet quiet, nearly silent in the dawn, the barely-risen sun casting soft colors against the walls. It makes the whole world seem fragile, as if everything’s been painted on the side of an eggshell. The air is thick with the promise of a hot, unforgiving day, but for the moment things are not uncomfortable. No airships are back in the skies, only a few Archadian troop carriers hanging at the borders. If they haven’t reopened the aerodrome by the end of the day, he’ll have to make it his first executive order. Vayne should probably make it a point to visit, actually, once he’s through with whatever it is he thinks he’s doing.

The next matter of importance, of course, is how the Occuria will get to their new avatar, if they haven’t already made their move. Cid had never had a clear answer from Venat on just how he’d been chosen, or how the others of its kind saw fit to bide their time. Raithwall had mentioned something, a warning linked to the Shard sleeping in his tomb. It must have been how Raminas knew what he did, and surely there must be something keeping the Occuria at bay all this time or Archadia would long have been banished from memory.

Balthier will reach the princess, and Basch fon Rosenberg will be ready to confirm anything she doesn’t already know as fact - his betrayal and her father’s murder by Vayne’s own command, and from there - from there the Shard, and what Raithwall intended as warning will seem to Ashelia as perfect opportunity. Vayne saw the look in her eyes, facing him at the palace - the princess wants nothing more than to kill him herself, but before that she will see him hurt as she has hurt, and damn the consequences.

Might there be some way, then, to separate his fate from that of his country? If he can somehow convince Ashelia to take her revenge on him alone, to see him dead in whatever gruesome way will satisfy and return to her throne without ever having to gain the Sun-Cryst’s power?

It would be an honor to die for the sake of Archadia - empty, foolish words but damned if Vayne doesn’t believe them, further down than anyone even thinks he can go. A good death, as such things went, one that the princess could grant him without even knowing she did so - but even then, there is still the matter of Larsa, and the Senate. He cannot save his country from annihilation only to know the Empire is still doomed to rot from within, that his brother would stand to receive such a poisoned inheritance.

… and what could stop Ashelia of Dalmasca from siding with Rozarria, even after his death? One Shard is all she needs, and then it is only to marry one of the Queen’s many sons, heed that certain counsel and watch Archades burn.

Vayne takes a deep breath, smelling incense and charcoal and roasting meat. The light above him is colored now through bits of pretty cloth suspended on the overhangs, stretched from side-to-side across the street or on awnings over the windows high above. He passes open windows and doors at street level with the sounds of the morning meals being prepared in the rooms beyond, children being scolded out of bed and plans being made. It reminds him a bit of Nilbasse, through there are no further stages of the city to rise above it, and the sky looks strange and empty without their towering heights. 

Of course he knows great spans of Rabanastre’s storied history, the people and events that led to the great unfurling of the rest of the Empire, but even the most impressive texts cannot replace the feel of the uneven stones beneath his feet. How it feels to reach out and run his hand along old tile and even older brickwork that has seen the passing of countless generations. The local builders say that most of the heavy maintenance happens beyond the walls of the city. Rabanastre itself is built on solid bedrock, just slightly higher than the arid plains around it, but the main roads are built on land not nearly so sturdy, all of it subjected to periods of heat, mudslide and drought that gleefully grind up even the most dedicated efforts to forge a path. 

And the giant tortoises. One mustn’t forget those.

Airship travel has done its part to put less traffic on those roads, but they are still the only way into the city for many of the outlying merchants, and this city lives by her trade. A city which has existed nearly from the beginning of recorded time, under one rule or another. There is a natural resolve to the set of its stones, a wear that speaks of trials patiently endured and the passing of ages. Vayne stops just inside a low archway, an alcove that might hold a shop or two in an hour’s time, or perhaps just a place where people gather for casual conversation. At the moment there are only intricately tiled floors, in a completely different pattern than the surrounding pillars, which are different still from the walls, a nearly bewildering mix of color and tessellation. Rabanastre is a patchwork in the way of a many-layered stone, each age adding a new detail to an endless chronicle. 

_I witnessed the birth of your empire, and your rise to glory,_ the city says, if he cares to listen, _and I will remain long after all trace of you and yours are gone._

Footprints do not linger long in the sand, whether they be made by kings, commoners or conquerors.

“Do you like it? I find myself here quite often. It is very pleasant to walk before the sun is too high.”

Vayne turns at the soft voice, the viera watching him with that odd look of casual diffidence they all seem to posses, as if nothing he could ever do would be of much more than a polite interest.

“Indeed, I do,” he smiles, “and indeed, it is. Good morning.”

“Good morning. My name is Ktjn.”

“Vayne Solidor, at your service,” he says, bowing slightly. The viera studies him, and he thinks it is certainly more in curiosity than suspicion.

“You are the new Lord Consul. The ruler of this city.” 

“I might say steward, but yes.”

The viera shakes her head slightly, hair like strands of pure-spun starlight framing her face. A beauty so delicate and graceful it seems to ignore gravity, a trait all her people seem to share. A shame Vayne had been barely half-conscious in his short time in Eryut, without a chance to see things properly, though he was certain they had all preferred him that way.

As if she can hear his thoughts, as if she knows how he’d hoped to avoid getting too close to her kind, Vayne sees Ktjn’s nose twitch and her eyes narrow slightly.

“You are likely smelling the labs on me,” he lies. “I spend much of my time in Archades with men of science, who experiment with magicite and Mist in all its forms and combinations. We work as safely as we can, though it is the sort of work that demands some consequence.” Cid’s most accomplished acolytes can no longer count on even being healed as quickly as other men, though so far none of them have developed the total immunity to magic Vayne seems to have acquired. “If it disturbs you, I will take my leave.”

“No. I am not troubled, it is just… strange. I am not so familiar with the ways of humes. It seems a great risk to take. What is the reward?”

It amuses him to consider the obvious answer - a slow and painful death - but it seems he has explained himself well enough to deflect any further concerns.

“I suppose it stands much the same as the reward for a viera who leaves her Wood. Have you found that worth the risk?”

Ktjn gestures to the path ahead, and Vayne is happy to step in alongside her. The city continues to wake up all around them, and Vayne gets more than a few stares from men and women leaving their homes, though when he nods a greeting they are usually quick to reciprocate. He isn’t wearing his dress uniform, though his clothing is still cut for his station and should any overlook that, he has no doubt his accent is more than enough to catch their attention. The ones who weren’t there to see him arrive will tell the ones who were, and if there’s to be an angry mob prying out bits of the city to stone him down - well, sooner than later. If it’s going to be that bad there’s little use in waiting around.

“I do not yet know what my reward is, if that is what I ought call it,” Ktjn says. “When I came this city, your Empire had just arrived, and things were… not as it seemed they ought be. I believed then I might have made a mistake, though my sister told me that humes are often as not in such chaos, and I should not pay it too much mind.”

“Sister?” 

From what little he knows, the viera use the word in two separate ways, concerning a common kinship for all of them but also more profound bonds, as those between hume siblings. The true viera language is a marvel of complex subtlety and nuance - rarely studied, and even those fortunate enough to find a viera who will allow them to ask questions admit their careful attempts still barely scratch the surface. It must be difficult for them to use the cruder, common language of Ivalice, as if moving from precise poetry to random words scrawled across back-alley walls.

“My sister Krjn works for the Centurio clan hall here in the city. I believe she was at the fete.”

Vayne remembers her, the viera who looked fully capable of taking on both sides of the fight alone, had she found any interest in it. In light of that revelation, Ktjn’s unarmored state and frank manner seem dangerously innocent, as if this is not only the first city she has seen at war but the first city she has seen _at all_.

“Yes. I spoke briefly with her partner Montblanc, just before the night grew… complicated.”

“They tried to kidnap you,” Ktjn says with the candor of someone with no reason to take any side in the fight, because it does not really matter. Rabanastre and Archadia are both well beneath her, to be observed and studied but not regarded as equal, or even sensible. Humes do as they will, no further explanation is necessary. A rather wonderful thing, to be put in one’s place by someone who does not even know they are doing so. 

“Kidnapping? Not assassination?” Vayne says dryly, though Ktjn seems as impervious to sarcasm as she is all other hume behavior.

“No. I have listened to many speak on the streets since then, and they say the Resistance meant to capture you. You would be the way for them to negotiate terms with Archadia.” The viera frowns slightly. “Is it wise for you to be out like this, if they were looking to trap you?”

“I doubt it,” Vayne says, doing his best not to laugh as she tries to make sense of that, before deciding it must be just one more example of the inexplicability of humes. Really, the longer he’s out here the less it seems he has anything to worry about. The Resistance has been thoroughly routed, and anyone left has to be more worried about reclaiming their princess than planning another attack. He has passed nearly as many Archadian soldiers on the streets as shopkeepers setting up for the day, both equally surprised to see him.

In Archades, the shops stratify right along with the rest of the city, the produce merchants keeping separate from the fishmongers who stay entire levels away from the sculptors and the artificers, both of whom are at a fair distance from the mages. The only things that bleed outside their invisible lines are the booksellers and the shipwrights, simply too many of either to keep them within any bounds.

Rabanastre, on the other hand, seems to have no bounds at all, and soon Vayne is surrounded on all sides by both the ordinary and the truly bizarre, a table loaded with candied fruit and nuts set next to one spilling over with coeurl pelts and carefully woven carpets. On his left, he has his choice of stones, rough marbles and granites in large slabs along with carefully polished statues in all sizes and colors, from milky quartzes to vibrant turquoise. On his right, what seems to be every bit of every animal that could ever be taken apart, shells and skins and a whole strand of transparent scales all strung together and clinking lightly in the wind. 

Whole dried lizards, nearly as long as his arm, dangle across the awning at eye level. The shopkeeper sees him pondering the possibilities.

“Medical or delicacy?”

“Both, Lord Consul, depending on your need,” The man says, and smiles when Vayne does. A little hesitant, a little nervous, but so far all anyone is doing is watching him as they work, as curious about him as he is about them. He thinks he catches a few frowns, some quick gestures from the corner of his eye. A bit of black market dealing being carefully shuffled out of his sight, perhaps, with warnings being passed on to others in the city about his unexpected visit. If an import from Rozarria had a three-hundred percent tariff hike coming in after the occupation, Vayne would probably take his chances with smuggling it in too. 

The main source of that particular problem seems to stem from Lowtown - the source of many problems, he has been told, but also the home of many of those displaced since Archadia’s arrival into the city, including a significant number of orphans.

Sending out armored troops after children, now _there’s_ the way to make them think him less of a monster.

Tucked in between a weapons booth and a clothing stall is a long stand of spices, and Vayne spends some time politely frightening the woman selling her wares, though he makes up for it by buying six different sorts of pepper, a vial of saffron and a packet of juniper berries, along with a small bag of a resinous, fragrant wood that’s supposedly good for smoking meat over. It seems to be a popular item everywhere in the city. He wonders if they’d used it at the fete, tempted to ask Ktjn if she knows where to find Migelo’s shop, although paying the bangaa a surprise visit now would just be cruel. 

The path through the bazaar loops back on itself, more crowded with every step though the people do grant him a bit of space. Rabanastre’s people are as diverse as the goods they sell, a fair mix of moogles and humes, with more bangaa and seeq than he’s seen in quite some time. Ktjn steps onto a side street, and Vayne follows and everything is quiet, calm and still. He has been here for over an hour now and is yet remarkably unmurdered. 

“On my journey to Rabanastre, there were many people who liked to watch me. My sister says humes believe us to be very beautiful,” Ktjn says, with a complete lack of self-consciousness. “They watch you too - but they are afraid. Why?”

“I would call it wariness, perhaps. I am yet unknown. If some new beast came to your Wood and made itself at home, would you not be cautious until you knew it meant you no harm?”

“Of course, but you are not a beast. You are only a hume, as they are.”

Again Vayne finds himself fighting a smile, for how easily he is put in his place. 

“True, but they do not watch you for your own sake either. The greater world has so few viera in it - you are a mystery. A representative for all your people, for how they act and what they believe in, whether you intend it or no. I do not stand alone - I am here on behalf of all the Empire, and so Dalmasca looks for its future in all that I do and say. It is not so vast a difference as that between your world and ours, but it is enough.”

Ktjn is quiet, contemplating his words as they reach the end of the street, which opens into another main road bursting with shops and another crowd of people surprised to see him, though the day is busy enough now that they have other business to keep them occupied, that the stares are infrequent and any whispers intermingle with a shifting current of gossip. The cathedral looms up over the rooftops, and though there are shadows cast they do very little against the heat, which is finally out in full force, baking down on everything.

“Archadia is great and powerful, and so it has conquered this country, and you rule where once there was a king.” Ktjn says quietly as they step into an alcove. “Dalmasca fought to keep this from happening, but your Empire was stronger, and now you will do what you wish with this land and these people. It is no longer its own land, only a part of yours - I do not know the word for this.”

“I would say protectorate, were it mine to name.”

Ktjn tips her head slightly. “You are very careful with your words.”

“I only hope I may choose the deeds to match them.”

Vayne will be expected to make this whole venture pay for itself, of course, but he hasn’t made a sport of shaking down budgets to think he can’t manage it this again. Unsurprisingly, it will all come down to the airships. The more he can shift that trade to Rabanastre - even a quarter of the builds would be enough for Dalmasca to hold its own within the Empire. As a country it is neither large nor with any particular financial demands. So far, if Vayne were to give its people any advice it would be to offer itself up as an exotic desert oasis and take rich Archadian tourists for every gil they had.

“What does it mean, then, if this is to be a… protectorate?”

It means a truth he cannot speak, of the strategic, simple value of Dalmasca - of the Imperial need to occupy simply so that Rozarria could not take it first. It means that for all their bravery and sacrifice King Rasler and all his men and armies had died for that and little more. Even if they had successfully repelled Archadia, Rozarria would have swept in before they could recover. An inevitable defeat, crushed between tyrants, all for the sake of a few inches on a map. Hardly the sort of truth to inspire a poet, let alone comfort a grieving widow, or impress a curious viera.

Ashelia will be merciless, and there is some justice in it, he cannot argue that. Playing by the rules as Archades itself set them down. Gods, but the price-

“It means I am here to serve, rather than to be served. Rabanastre belongs to its people, it is only my duty to listen to them and do my best to help where and when I can. As you say - we are great and we are powerful, but strength means very little if Archadia is not wise enough to rule as it ought. Dalmasca’s fate these past few years has been neither fair nor kind, but I am determined that she shall not suffer so again.”

Ktjn looks at him, a sort of calculating stare that could mean anything. Vayne wonders what had called her from her home, a place of peace and bounty so absolute that all of this is foreign to her, wars and merchants and humes. He wonders, not at all for the first time, what it might mean that her Wood - whatever it is and whatever it knows - had chosen to gift him a bit more life. 

She turns away from the shops, up a side street where the noise quickly dwindles to nothing, the alleys in between the buildings narrow enough in places that he might almost touch both walls with his arms extended. He wonders if she might know the way to Lowtown, if she would be amenable to taking him there or if Krjn would strangle him with his own waistcoat for suggesting such a thing. The way the upper levels speak of Old Archades, one would think it was nothing but endless slaughter, a bit of stolen coin passed from hand to hand as each thief was killed by the next. The truth is not half so exciting or bloody, and there is no reason to believe it is any different here.

Vayne glances behind him - he can still see the cathedral, a good marker through these maze-like streets - and when he’s turned back Ktjn is standing in an open doorway, looking back to make sure he’s following before she steps inside.

One breath and Vayne knows exactly where he is, the hot smell of metal and oil with the cool tingle of magicite beneath. The stones in the walls are dark with scorch marks, wood beams covered so thick with years of accumulated grime there’s no sign left of the grain. Every inch of space is well-worn and full of what has been useful and may be again, machinery stacked on top of itself, arranged in various bundles of chaos vaguely according to size. Draklor’s facilities may be larger and better equipped but otherwise it’s much the same, from the pile of dog-eared texts propped up against a random chunk of metal to the numerous gouges in the floors and tables, the sort of damage that seems to accrue even in Draklor’s newest workrooms overnight. 

It’s an artificer’s shop, not where Vayne belongs but a world he’s borrowed, comfortable and familiar. Behind a tall stack of boards, he can hear the sound of a hammer strike, the soft hiss of metal in water.

“Taneli?” Ktjn calls. “Are you busy?”

The work stops. “Never too busy to talk to you, Ktjn. You’re here early. If Krjn’s still looking for those crystals she wants, I ought to have word any day now.”

The man sounds young, and happy, though it’s difficult to imagine anyone who wouldn’t welcome a viera’s visit.

“You had said that you were having trouble with a water pump, that the Archadians were not allowing you to make repairs.”

Taneli lets out a half-laugh, and he can hear tools being set down, and footsteps coming closer

“Ktjn, no one as beautiful as you needs to be half as interested in my problems. It’s like I told your sister, the bastards said two weeks three months ago, and there’s nothing to be done. If we sneak in to do the work, they’ll just undo it all and call it sabotage - that’s what happened in the north quarter last time. So unless you’ve found a way to get that Lord Consul of theirs-” 

Vayne has some idea what to expect when Taneli turns the corner. Sturdy boots with thick soles, a work apron perhaps. Maybe a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, or just a sleeveless undershirt, or perhaps no shirt at all. Warm enough for it, as long as he’s not working with anything that’s likely to spark. He’s expecting scars, burn marks, the signs of a life spent bending metal and magicite to one’s will and being bent by it in turn. 

It’s unexpected to see that the man’s missing his right arm entirely, the elbow tapering off to empty space, though Vayne doubts it’s anywhere near the surprise of having a Lord Consul at the door.

He really is kind of a bastard.

“Good morning.”


	9. Chapter 9

Vayne’s final speech before departing for Dalmasca had been a petition long in the making, an attempt to formalize the worth of Draklor’s most devoted craftsmen. It was possible for a Judge, by exceptional service and loyalty to the Empire, to earn a title of his own, a House rank for his family name. Vayne could vouch that the shipwrights put themselves at risk even outside of wartime, so there seemed no reason that their years of noble endeavor could not someday be worthy of the same reward.

If he listened close enough, he might still hear the screams of outrage. At least he’d left the Empire something to remember him by. No chance in hell that the nobles of Archades would willingly raise an artificer to their ranks, even if they were the ones who’d built them a way to look down on the world.

It’s no surprise, then, that Archadian nobles would get in the way of what needs to be done in Rabanastre. A good thing, that Vayne can guess the extent of the problem, because Taneli’s gone silent as a stone. The mechanic is as young as he sounds, fair-haired with dark eyes that stare at him for another moment before glancing around the room, perhaps to start cataloguing all the items that might stave an Archadian’s head in, or perhaps just to convince himself this is actually happening.

He might have lost that arm in some accident of industry, but Vayne doubts it. Which means he won’t be making many more friends today.

“Well…” the man finally shakes himself out of his shock, “I suppose I should put a shirt on, seeing as you’re the Lord Consul and all.” 

“Don’t trouble yourself on my account.”

A slight frown that says Taneli’s gone from wondering if this is real to wishing it weren’t, and he disappears again. Ktjn, however, seems quite satisfied with the outcome. Vayne assumes this is how it works in her Wood - he has called himself leader, she has brought him a problem to be solved and now it is his duty to solve it. All is as it ought be.

“We should speak again, you and I,” she says. “I have not been in Archades, and would like to hear of it.”

“I imagine you have some tales of your own travels to share,” Vayne gives her another gracious half-bow, as Taneli and his shirt make their reappearance. “At present, I fear I shall be somewhat occupied, but do feel free to call on the palace at your leisure.”

Ktjn makes her goodbyes to the mechanic, and leaves, though the awkwardness that remains has a presence all its own. If all the stilted silences of his life were laid out end-to-end, Vayne might never need to speak again.

“You needed help, Consul?” Taneli finally offers.

“I believe the point of all this was to offer my assistance to you.”

“Ktjn… isn’t used to humes.”

Which means _if you hurt her I will gut you_ as well as _you can stop pretending you care now_. It certainly isn’t that Vayne’s any sort of humanitarian. He’s every bit the bloodless bastard they all suspect he is, but that hardly changes the situation. If it’s what it sounds like, and there’s three months of problems in Rabanastre that five minutes of his attention and authority can fix, he’d be a blithering idiot for not taking the time to do so.

“You’re having trouble making repairs? I might be able to assist.”

Taneli studies him for a moment more, making some quiet judgment call, weighing how little he trusts his new Lord Consul against the possibility of getting things done. Vayne is pleased to see it, when pragmatism wins out. 

“Let me get my gear, and I’ll show you.”

“Lead the way.”

\----------------------------------

Taneli moves quickly down the narrow back alleys, with pipes of all sizes snaked along the buildings, twisting over and around their path like creeping vines. The markets and shops are gone, the few glimpses of wider streets Vayne gets seem residential, even industrial in places. A less scenic view of Rabanastre, but likely the more useful.

“Do you know the man in charge of this area?”

“I never spoke with him,” Taneli says, in a tone that makes Vayne wish to see the look on his face, which is likely why the other man keeps his eyes forward. “One of your Judges told me I had to write up a request for a survey team, who’d pass along their findings to the head engineer who’d bring it to the district’s High Marshall who needed permission from… I don’t know.” 

The Lord Regent, Vayne thinks, who’d been out of his office and on a ship back to Archades before the ink had dried on the official transferral of powers. A good third of those in charge of the districts Rabanastre’s been portioned into haven’t ever left Archadia, preferring to do their half-assed job through equally half-assed proxies.

“I did what I could, but come to find out the work’s on a ‘border’ with another one of your districts, and that meant another Marshall and engineer and survey team…” Taneli shakes his head, the frustration obviously his closest companion as of late.

It might be simple lazy incompetence, bolstered by the ever present Imperial bureaucracy. A minor official somewhere might be making too much money contracting repairs to care about what isn’t getting done. Or perhaps one of the Marshalls is refusing to be helpful in the hopes it will look bad for his neighbor. For all Vayne knows, there’s a long-standing fight back in Archades somewhere and this is somehow the latest consequence.

“I know it is not much consolation, but I have seen this before.”

Taneli does not answer. Vayne can guess at what he’s thinking - _how did you idiots ever manage to conquer anything_ or perhaps _so this is what we have to look forward to as Imperial citizens_ but he only shifts the bag of gear he’d packed a little higher on his shoulder. Vayne is honestly intrigued to see what’s inside, Draklor’s own mechanics rabidly protective of their kits, all carefully chosen and cultivated the way a master gardner might tend to his best plots, with many of the tools handcrafted to some particular end.

“It has been two years since the end of the war.” Vayne says. “Has there been no attempt to engage the services of Rabanastre’s own guilds?”

Taneli snorts, an answer in itself. “Of course not. They’re too afraid we might blow up our city instead of fixing it.”

A justified concern, maybe, though Vayne imagines it’s been used far more often as a blanket excuse for indifference. 

The alleys turn into streets, which turn into wider avenues and in a few moments more they’re in a larger courtyard bordered by poorer homes, the tiles and fancy brickwork replaced with intricate but far cheaper designs painted directly on the walls. The work in question is obvious, a large mechanism half-submerged in a pool of dirty water in the center of the yard. A young boy sits beneath an overhang, perhaps hiding from the heat, and looks up when Taneli calls to him. 

“Go and get Cadry for me. Tell him to bring his gear. We’re fixing the pump.”

“He’s up north. Putting the roof back on his cousin’s house, after those ship cannons shook it off,” The boy says, getting to his feet, “I thought you weren’t allowed to work on it. Soldiers’ll come for you.”

“Not today,” Taneli says, pointing his handless limb in Vayne’s direction as he lets his tool bag hit the ground. The boy looks at him, no telling if he knows or cares what a Lord Consul’s good for but Vayne’s still Archadian and that’s explanation enough to satisfy. 

\------------------------------------------

Rabanastre has more than one way of getting water to the people, but in a desert every one of them is necessary, and Vayne glances around, wondering how they’ve made up for the lack of what seems to be the main source of water for all the houses he can see.

“The next pump’s about a dozen blocks away. They’ve had to carry their water back here a bucket at a time. It takes most of the day.” Taneli says without looking up, lining his tools up at the edge of the murky pool before taking the plunge. The water comes up a little higher than mid-calf, shallower than it looks. Vayne’s not going to pretend he understand much of what he’s looking at, though the mechanic seizes on the task as if he’s been planning his avenue of attack for ages, which is likely true.

“A bit old-fashioned, isn’t it?” Vayne says, studying the well-worn machine.

Taneli smiles, not looking up. It’s a smirk, really, now that they’re here and he’s got his work to focus on. The reason Vayne goes to the labs rather than having the shipwrights coming to him, because they’re far less nervous answering questions when on familiar territory. 

“It means we can fix it when it breaks. If it’s too new, some fancy piece of… useless, not worth repairing. A system like this, if you keep on it, it’ll last.” 

The implication’s perfectly clear, that the Archadians and their inattention have caused many more problems like this one, by not allowing the work to be done by those who know how to do it. 

The man is fast and has obviously learned to compensate for his missing arm, but the work still isn’t easy and he swears more than once under his breath as he works. Vayne sees the problem coming well before it happens, as Taneli wrestles with a large piece of pipe at eye level, trying to balance it while he’s uncoupling it and even if he had both hands to help it wouldn’t really be enough. The man needs a team to do a proper job of this, but he’s not about to waste a minute waiting, at the risk of the Lord Consul just as suddenly changing his mind.

The pipe begins to wobble - and so Vayne drops down into the pool, to catch it before any further damage can be done. One more of those awkward pauses follows, a pointed sort of disbelief with a glance at his fancy coat and gloves now draped over an obliging bit of railing and his fancy boots halfway submerged in water so filthy it looks like he’s standing in solid concrete. 

“They’re waterproof. I think.” Vayne smiles. “I’m not trained for the craft, but I’m told I take directions well enough.”

It’s clear Taneli wants to say about fifteen different things, half of which are baffled and none complimentary, but he also wants to finish the job, and so it doesn’t matter what the Lord Consul thinks he’s playing at. Vayne does as he’s directed, bracing equipment or holding bits of what’s been ground down or rusted past repair, handing over tools as they’re needed. He doesn’t have to ask which one is which, and it doesn’t go unnoticed, though the man keeps his opinions to himself.

“Oi! Taneli!”

Vayne glances over his shoulder at the sound of footsteps - the boy from before is back, wandered off to return with one of his young friends, and what might be the second boy’s sister, an older girl in threadbare, grease-stained coveralls and a bag of her own. Introductions are made - she lives around the corner, and heard of what was going on - “didn’t think we needed a Lord Consul to get a well repaired, but we’ll take it” - and with that there’s three of them making quick work on the machine, though Vayne soon steps back to make room for the professionals as one more shows up, and then another loaded down with tools, as if some silent signal is pinging its way through the city.

He’s seen this sort of spontaneous gathering in the labs, whenever there’s an engine to overhaul or any piece of new or complex machinery being poked at. A handful of shipwrights soon becomes a crowd, all discussing their various projects as well as whatever work is at hand, each with an opinion on how it might be done better, faster, cheaper or twice as powerful. Soon there’s more men and more tools and Vayne is back to where he was at the fete, shaking hands and answering nervous questions and being stared at, while the younger boys get started on a sort of bucket brigade, to lower the filthy water and give the artificers more room to work.

“You there! What do - I’ve warned you all about this, more than once!“

Vayne had wondered when the guard would show up, if they planned on showing up at all, and it seems his curiosity is finally rewarded. Two soldiers in full armor stomp up the alley, though the one doing the talking doesn’t sound angry as much as irritated.

“I’ve _told_ you before, you can’t just… I know it’s difficult but there’s a system for this sort of work and the rules have to be followed. Now you’re all going to have to-“ He stops short when he sees Vayne among those he’s castigating, the crowd parting around him in one great, silent wave. It’s quiet enough to hear the muttered curse bounce off the inside of his armor. “L-Lord Consul? I didn’t- sir, we weren’t notified…“

“I was in the area, and had heard there’d been a bit of a problem. It seems these things sort themselves out more quickly when I attend to them myself.”

“I… y-yes sir. Of course. Very good.” They both pretend not to hear any soft snickers from the Dalmascans.

“Get one of your men to inform the Marshalls to bring me the paperwork so that I can formalize all this. Also, relay the message that I wish for a joint meeting as soon as it can be arranged, to discuss the current state of city and the last six months worth of repairs.”

Vayne wonders how much value there will be in such a gathering, but it will be entertaining enough to see what excuses they come up with, and how long it will take for them to start stabbing each other in the back.

\-----------------------------

The mood of the square is surprisingly close to festive as time passes, with children enlisted now and then to find replacement parts from some distant location, or curious neighbors peering out of this window or that. Vayne borrows a ledger and a pen and asks for a rough list of all else that needs to be repaired in Rabanastre - and he’s well into the sixth page before he dares pause long enough to stretch his hand, even the soldiers chiming in with complaints they’ve heard of from their time guarding the city’s front walls. It’s slightly irksome, that the guard chooses to stay when they realize he is out here alone. It drives a bit of a wedge between him and the Dalmascans, when they were already so hesitant to approach him. At least these particular soldiers seem to be pleased not to have to enforce regulations they recognize as absurd. Speaking of…

“Are you wearing those helmets because you wish to, or because you have to?” Vayne asks.

“Orders, sir.”

“You may consider those orders rescinded at your leisure.”

“Ah… thank you, sir.”

The helmets quickly come off, and the faces beneath are all young, strong, handsome and resolute. Perfect soldiers of Archadia. An artist flush with patriotic fervor could not paint a portrait more worthy.

Gods, the weight of that. 

Vayne has to remember it, to remind himself of the realness of things - play in politics for too long and it all becomes theory and leverage, a man cut down to the dimensions of one more chip on the board, one more spiritless gamble to be won or lost when this is not the truth of it at all. He has to take extra precautions against himself, he knows this. Vayne must know, always, how and why people break, because he is a Solidor and Solidors must be more careful than other men. If there is anything they do better than power, it is hurting others without ever knowing it, effortlessly, like children who destroy their toys with indifferent malice, aware of only how easily they can be replaced. 

If that is his destiny - if the difference between himself and Gramis is only one of time, then Vayne will at least do what he can to be cruel by choice.

“I hear Reveca got her hands on a tinblock, the one with the windstone struts?” One mechanic says to another, close enough to be overheard. “You can grind down the glossiairs to nubs if you race one of those, and they’ll turn on a gil.”

“They’ll turn _over_ on a gil. Nothing like going full out when you’ve got zero stability,” a third boy replies.

“What are the Esters working on these days?”

“A G-347. Modded with the long body and a five set of skystones on the outside edge. I hear they run them like that on the coast.”

“What good will that do? Fanciest wreckage on the course?”

All of the mechanics present are around Taneli’s age or even a few years younger, and there’s barely an artificer of that age in Archades who doesn’t have some interest in the skies. Most of those Vayne knows keep their own skybikes in a constant state of being built, rebuilt and customized. It’s quite popular - if not practically mandatory - for a group to band together and purchase some space and a common bike to rebuild into a racer. He is rather certain half of Draklor only works for him so that they can use the shop tools for team projects in the after hours.

“I wonder,” he says into a lull in the conversation, “if you might tell me how Rabanastre’s shipwrights side on the issue of the adapted VKR-50 against the Rozarrian standard _Cielo Kator_.”

In all honesty, Vayne does not quite understand the particulars, something to do with the way the Rozarrian bike processes its magickal power - it’s a damn fast ship on the straights, so they say - versus the maneuverability and adaptability of the VKR, usually a treasure trove for aftermarket parts. What his question is, however, is a recursive, endless argument, like tossing raw meat to the sharks. He’s heard the shipwrights at Draklor argue the costs and benefits of their favorite machines in a constant, detailed litany for _days_ at a time, only pausing now and then to admit some new rival onto the field of battle to be lauded or torn to pieces.

He is not one of them, but he has a passing grasp of the terrain.

“Well, Lord Consul,” one of the mechanics says slowly, as if it might be a trick question, so hesitant to cause offense. “I would say for my money, the VKR is a far more flexible machine.”

The slightest pause, they’re obviously still cautious around him, but no one can let it stand for any longer than that.  
“Flexibility’s not worth much when you’re three seconds late off the line.”

“You can make up that three with the first corner, if you haven’t built a brick.”

Voices are protesting now that Vayne hasn’t heard before, timidness falling away in the face of the challenge. There are meetings of the Senate less heated and far less precise than debates among shipwrights, and he is not at all surprised when someone decides to solve the problem of which is better by simply throwing another bike in the mix.

“Neither one of them is a Gully. A 272 Gully is the best bike out there.”

“Best bike you’re going to be walking home when the engine goes.”

“I have never had the engine drop in my life. Were you drunk?”

“I didn’t think a Lord Consul would care much for racing,” Taneli speaks up, still hard at work, not even looking up as his voice carries above the chatter. Surprisingly, it silences the rest of them. There’s suspicion in the mechanic’s voice, calling him out on his attempt to fit in. A challenge. Vayne likes the sound of that.

“I have only been a Lord Consul for two days now. Before that, I had the privilege of being acquainted with the artificers of the Draklor Laboratories, in Archades.”

“I know that place.” A girl seated at the lip of the pit says, ‘Theory and Practical Design as it Applies to the Modern Airship,’ by Dr…. um.. Bunansa, right? We’ve got three more of his books at the shop dock at the Aerodrome.”

So it is that Draklor once again provides him with unexpected avenues, and it doesn’t take long before Vayne is being barraged on all sides with questions about the quality of equipment in the labs, the procedure for designing and building new racers, the materials they favor and how fast they’ll go - even though no one quite believes the latest lap results. Vayne doesn’t bother going into the details of what they’d been able to do with Nethicite, putting so much power in the engine that one of Cid’s best had broken his wrist in two places just getting it off the line. 

He’d been grinning like an idiot the whole time they’d been putting him back together.

“Is Draklor is responsible for your dreadnoughts, too? Like the one you had over the palace?” Taneli says, more than a little steel in his voice, and once again the rest of the group goes silent. He's deliberately pushing, maybe. The moment Vayne takes offense, it will remind the rest of them who he is and what he stands for, that he’s not at all the ally he’s pretending to be.

“Every ship in the Imperial fleet goes through the lab first, and Draklor’s artificers are often sent out to see to general maintenance and repair. The only thing they don’t do is get to fly them - not that it stops them from asking,” Vayne says. “The Ifrit was sent here in the event of some unlikely air assault, in the hopes that just having it here would be enough of a deterrent. Unfortunately there was some miscommunication about its role in the ground defense of the palace. I was very glad to hear no civilians were injured during the attack.”

Vayne doubts Taneli is convinced by that, but a few of the other mechanics look curious, or at least not openly hostile.

“It’s my hope that Rabanastre will become a new staging ground for some of our more advanced ships. Once I get a clear view of how the city operates, I’d very much like to break ground - with new facilities,  
airfields, and equipment from Archadia until we can build our own here.” 

“Along with the Archadians to use it,” Taneli mutters from the pit.

“At least a few, at first, or they’d get annoyed with me for keeping them out of the action. But surely you believe Dalmascan ships would be better built by Dalmascan hands?”

Vayne watches that thought hit them, the potential for exactly what he’s offering and how far they might be able to take it. If one in five of them has been more than making ends meet these past two years, it’s almost certainly under the table. He remembers this look, or something very close to it, the first time the build teams at Draklor had actually been paid what they were worth, what he’d been able to negotiate out from around a few hideously exploitative contracts. 

Half of Archades thinks Vayne’s made a deal with several different devils, but the secret to his success is really rather simple. Find the resources that no one else is using, the unappreciated and overlooked, and reward them for their efforts. He makes them rich, they give him power, credibility and authority. No one can deny the success of the trade.

“I… uh,” the girl who’s read a few of Cid’s books says, “that is, Lord Consul… we heard that the Archadian army, that you…ah, conscript.”

A soft snort from one of the soldiers behind him, and Vayne tries not to glare, hoping it might go unnoticed.

“We do not.”

With any luck the relief from that will keep them from asking exactly why - because entry into the Archadian military is seen as a high honor, if not an obligation for anyone in the Empire proper. A symbol of status, and over twenty years later, even the former Republic of Landis is still not quite the Empire ‘proper.’ Only Archadia could conquer a nation only to look so far down its nose at its newest citizens. He hopes it will be different for Dalmasca, already so distant from the Empire, that they may be left to defend their own, the lack of any real Imperial interest excused away with some remark on the rigors of the desert sun and thin Northern blood.

“Maybe we should ask him about the race?” A mechanic speaks up - the one who’d championed the Gully, Vayne thinks. A few loaded looks pass between the whole group - even Taneli looks up, and it’s obvious they don’t want to ask him but it’s also too late to take the question back. The boy who’d answered him, the one who’d preferred the VKR, takes charge once more.

“Well, Lord Consul, there’s… we haven’t had much of a chance to fly, lately.” 

Vayne can guess the extent of that understatement, but he raises a curious brow toward his volunteer bodyguard anyway, the soldier looking once again chagrined at the orders he’s been following.

“Ah, the Lord Regent banned all non-registered skyship travel in and around Rabanastre. So… no racing, sir. At all.”

For two years? Gods, it’s amazing they haven’t blown up the city out of sheer boredom by now.

“How else would I know which shipwrights to hire if I can’t see how they build?” Vayne smiles, all but being handed the opportunity to win the city over. “I’ll get your races back for you, if you promise to win.”  
A few gasps, some delighted laughs and a great deal of commotion, everyone either thanking him or chatting quickly to each other, what’s probably been months of carefully considered dreams and abandoned goals given sudden, new life. 

If Vayne hadn’t been paying attention to the work being done, he’d have missed what happened next, though that was likely what Taneli had been hoping for.

The water crystal’s not just cracked but completely shattered, they’ve been pulling shards of it free from the gears for a while. Vayne’s been waiting for them to ask for a replacement, little use in a working system if the water hasn’t been purified, and crystals aren’t cheap - but instead Taneli reaches out to rummage quickly through his bag and Vayne can see three or four stones inside - water crystals, too clear to be recycled, a shocking blue. 

It’s rough magicite then, cut and polished, but that’s no job for a simple jeweler. It takes skill to cut with the paths of the magicks, to facet the gems in the way that they’ll best amplify the power within. Vayne wonders who they’re trading to and for what in order to acquire the crystals - and then Taneli whistles softly, and the gems begin to glow, one particular gem a bit more brightly than the rest, echoing back the high, clear note.

He has perfect pitch. It’s hardly a necessary skill, but the shipwrights at Draklor who have it are all among the very best, a natural talent. Vayne’s seen them use the same trick as a shortcut when they’re trying to choose which stones to use where, the resonant frequencies important to the workings of a larger engine, too much dissonance enough to make the whole thing collapse. He’s never heard of it being used to shape rough magicite, but it’s hard to imagine those crystals come from anywhere else. 

The rest of the mechanics are too busy with their own affairs, probably well used to the sight, and he wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Taneli’s playing down the skill. Especially when the other man notices him watching, and Vayne sees him flinch, quickly turning back to the last of his work. 

It doesn’t take long before the remaining water in the pool is sparkling clear, and the light trickle of water from the fountain - part of the now-working pump - is enough to make even the baking dust around them seem cool and welcoming.

\---------------------------------

“So, do you cut skystones as well?” Vayne asks, and in the quiet shop he can hear Taneli’s breath catch.

The mechanic begged off following the others for their afternoon break, though he seemed unsurprised when Vayne chose to follow him, and they’d walked in silence all the way back to his small workshop. Now that Vayne knew what to look for, there were details everywhere of his second life as shipwright, bits and pieces of machinery that Vayne vaguely recognized as those most likely to burn out of a bike pushed past its limits.

“Where do you build your ships?” Taneli says nothing, but there’s no point in not asking. “It doesn’t seem you’d have enough room here.”

“We rent a space down near the aerodrome. It’s been mostly empty for a while now. I suppose that’s not going to be the case for long, if what you said is true.” He’s guarded and cautious, picking up tools on a bench only to put them down again, glancing at Vayne from the corner of his eye. The soldiers have refused to abandon their guard, though the lack of space in the workshop has at least kept them outside.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Taneli says, a set to his shoulders as if preparing himself for the worst. Vayne hides the smirk - few people in the world who might say that and even fewer who have a chance at being at all accurate.

“Enlighten me?”

“I’m the only one who works with those stones, you should know that. No one else, just me. The magicite’s good, all solid. I check it myself, even source it when I can. I don’t put in a crystal anywhere in this city that won’t hold, and I don’t sell them.”

It’s illegal to fabricate crystals, to manufacture them without a license. Highly illegal - but that’s all worries over compressed scrapstone or cheap spellcraft and of course, not what Vayne is thinking at all. 

“How many repairs have you made like that in the city?”

Taneli grimaces. “I can show you. I don’t have a list written up, but I know them all. It’s… there’s a lot.” His eyes flash, he’s tense with that anger Vayne saw before. “It’s not like you gave us a choice! We could hardly buy food, let alone crystals, and they wouldn’t replace anything no matter how we asked - I did what I had to do to survive. To make sure _your city_ survived, Lord Consul.”

“Will you show me how?”

Vayne watches the mechanic try to figure it out, how letting the Lord Consul see what he’s already confessed to can make anything worse. A long moment passes, until finally Taneli gives up trying to puzzle it out, stepping in between the narrow isles in the back of the shop and gesturing for Vayne to follow.

“It was a bit less of a production when I had the other hand,” he says, and as he steps up to the low bench Vayne hears the crunch of magicite fragments beneath his boots, watching him position a large, rough block of it in a carefully padded vise and pick up a chiseled blade. 

Maybe they did it this way in ages past, but Vayne’s never seen anyone facet a gem like this. Taneli whistles his way slowly up the scale until the magicite sings in response, and with a few deft motions he’s sliced away great portions of the surrounding stone, listening to the way the stone echoes back, letting the glow of it tell him exactly where and how to strike. 

It’s ice magicite, Vayne can feel the temperature in the room falling with every cut he makes. The initial work takes an impressively short amount of time, and again Taneli compensates with practiced ease for his missing limb, lifting a chisel poised in a much tinier vise, attached to a swing arm above the now-revealed crystal. He positions the delicate tool with swift certainty, chipping away smaller fragments of magicite, whistling all the while until the facets of the crystal are plain to see. Taneli lifts it from the vise and hands it over, obviously proud of himself even when he knows he ought not to be.

“I’d polish it up, of course, but that’s more or less how it’s done.”

“Who taught you how?”

Taneli glances up at that, not the question he’s expecting, as if Vayne gives a damn for the finer points of magicite regulation.

“No one,” the mechanic says. “I mean, I’ve had an apprenticeship like anyone but… I don’t know how I know. It just makes sense, is all.”

Which is more or less the answer Vayne had received when he’d asked the question at Draklor. 

“Do you fly?”

A huff of laughter, and Taneli lifts what’s left of his missing limb. “I’ve got an eight pound weight advantage. Hell yes, I fly.”

Vayne wonders how he deals with the missing limb at a hundred-fifty miles an hour, but assumes he likely found the answer to that before everything else he did in a day. The build teams at Draklor would have to be heads in jars before they’d think of giving up on the sky - and even then, he’s sure they’d find a way.

“Why haven’t you gone to Rozarria? Or Bhujerba?”

It’s not a good thing to say. Taneli steps away from the bench as if from a blazing fire, and there’s pain there and hate there and it’s certainly meant for him. 

“No one’s got much use for a one-armed shipwright, even if I can whistle a pretty tune. Rabanastre’s my home, and they need me. I think I’ve fixed half the city by now, when no one’s looking. I would have fixed that pump too, sooner or later.” He glares, daring Vayne to do his worst. “So, what happens now? Is it the stocks, or do I get to see Nalbina again?”

“If I thought you could teach that, I’d ship you back to Archades tomorrow. As it is, you’re doing good work here, right where I need good work done. I will have to do something about the magicite supply to the city’s artificers, though. Impressive though it may be, I’m sure you have better things to do than cut crystal.”

Taneli stares. Still trying to figure him out, still coming up with nothing he can use. “It’s all right if I don’t believe you right away?”

“Perfectly understandable.” Vayne says, handing the ice crystal back to him. The room’s cool enough now that he can see his breath in the air. Amazing.

“It’s true what you said, though,” Taneli says. “You really don’t conscript?”

“Are you sure that’s what you want to hear?” Vayne says. “It means more of our soldiers on your streets.”

“Better than us fighting and dying in your stead,” the mechanic snaps. “If it’s not the Empire demanding concessions, it’s Rozarria trying to come in through the back door.” Vayne raises an eyebrow, but the mechanic’s glare is a clear reply, that he had no right to pretend Rozarria’s interest is any kind of revelation. “Dalmasca doesn’t bow, not to your empire or any other, and we’re not about to go the way Nabudis did for the sake of your war!”

“Where did you serve?” Vayne asks, because he’s been curious all this time and since the man’s already angry it seems as good a time as any to find out. He hasn’t heard it phrased exactly like that before, with Nabudis as the unknowing sacrifice placed on the altar by warring empires, but for all he knows it’s true, and certainly the sort of thing to put the fear into its sister kingdom. Taneli is surprised by the question, and it seems to puncture his anger somewhat, though he answers with one of his own.

“It’s your ship, isn’t it. The _Ifrit_?”

“I command the Eighth Fleet, yes.”

“I was a combat engineer aboard the _Aurai_ , at Nalbina. We met the First Fleet there - did some damage while we were aloft, gave as good as we got.” He glances up, to see if Vayne reacts to that - still trying to provoke, or perhaps just the pride of a soldier, refusing to deny his place in the fight. “Hell of a battle. I was sure I wasn’t going to see the other side of it. Still not sure which one of your ships hit us. Just a glancing blow, or we all would have been ash, but it was enough to sink the ship. By the time they got me out of the wreckage, it was too late for the arm.”

Taneli flexes his remaining hand, crushing it into a fist before spreading his fingers wide once more. He’s weighing his next words carefully, not quite sure if it’s worth the risk to speak, though Vayne can’t imagine there’s anything else the man can say to try and provoke him. A surprise then, when he does nothing of the kind.

“I would have gladly died, to keep Dalmasca free. I wasn’t afraid of dying, and I’m sure as hell not afraid of the Empire.” Taneli looks up, meeting Vayne’s gaze to prove to the both of them that it’s true. “But… we were overrun, almost from the beginning. A bottleneck on the ground doesn’t mean much if the sky’s clear, and they should have known it before we went in. You could see it - the paling wasn’t going to hold, and Rasler didn’t withdraw. Everyone knows he had his chance - he could have pulled back. I’m loyal to Dalmasca, to my last breath - but Rasler of Nabradia was too proud. He should have quit the field instead of dying on it. No one wants to admit to it, not now that he’s gone - but that doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

Now there’s an interesting concession, that all of Dalmasca might not have been as eager to follow its sister-state into war, and that Rasler - Rasler of Nabradia, Vayne had noted the distinction - had been quick to rally his young wife’s armies to a battle his own had so recently lost. He couldn’t help but wonder what King Raminas had counseled, especially in light of all that had followed. 

He’d thought it a foregone conclusion, that should Ashelia stand up to be formally recognized her people would yet rally, would throw themselves at the Empire to the last man - but perhaps that was not entirely so. Maybe the city mourned its lost princess so deeply because it meant they could honor her without having to take up her banner as their own.

“You know,” Taneli says, “you’re not the first surprise Ktjn’s brought to my door. I’ve never had her bring me trouble, though, until today… but maybe she was right to do it. Maybe… well, I thought you’d have shipped me to the dungeons twice over by now.”

Vayne smiles. “I prefer mutually beneficial agreements when I can get them. Otherwise, someone tries to kill me and I have to try and remember why and it’s the damnedest waste of my time.” 

The mechanic laughs a little at that, while he tries to figure out if Vayne is joking.

“I would like for you to meet with one of Draklor’s finest, if you’d consider it.” Vayne says. “He’ll be arriving shortly, and I think he’d be interested in speaking with you, finding out how the city works, and watching you cut down some more magicite. The only problem then will be how to keep him from running off back home with you when you’re done.”

“You think I…? What?” Unlikely that he means to glance down at his missing limb, but Taneli does, just for the briefest moment. “I really don’t see what use I’d be to anyone there, Lord Consul.”

“I have a feeling I could put you on the next flight and you’d have your own build team in a sixmonth. In the future, yes, I would very much like for you to see the lab in person - but for now, I’d like you here as an advisor on projects for the city. I’m going to bring in some of the lab’s mechanics soon, and they’ll need someone to advise them on what they ought to do. Otherwise, I promise you they’ll get inventive and soon the whole city will be floating six feet above the ground with the water running backwards.”

It’s funny how quickly confidence can fade in the face of simple recognition, Taneli’s irritation at being so long overlooked and ignored suddenly replaced with nervousness. It’s amazing how frightened people can get when they’re offered what they’ve always wanted.

“You want me to… I’m not, I mean, I just… I would need to think about this.”

“Absolutely,” Vayne says, and hands him the ledger, a half-dozen pages of his countrymen’s requests. “You can ponder it over in our meeting with the Marshalls tomorrow. I’ll send a man by to escort you. If you’re at all worried about not fitting in, I can assure you they won’t want you there - but they’ll loathe me considerably more. The unimaginable tedium should take care of any lingering doubts about your usefulness.”

He’s being too informal by half, seeing the shipwright as his job and not where he’s from - but half of Archades already thinks he’s as mad as Cid is, surely Rabanastre will come to believe it too whether he tries or not. Taneli’s not saying no, not saying much of anything - gods, sometimes Vayne thinks he keeps living just to see that look, that disbelieving surprise. Anything to avoid living up to expectations. 

The mechanic finally shakes his head. “But you don’t know me.”

“I believe I’ve seen enough.”

“I don’t… but you know…” He sounds absolutely baffled. “I don’t even _like_ you, Lord Consul.”

Vayne laughs, because that much honesty more than deserves it. “Fortunately, that has never had a thing to do with business.”

\---------------------------------------------

“Lord Consul!”

Loren is the one to run him down at last, catching him at a cross-street quite close to the palace gates. His freshly-minted Chief Advisor slows to a brisk walk as he approaches, brushing dust off his jacket trying to look as if he hadn’t been sprinting around town searching for its thoroughly irresponsible head of state. Vayne takes some satisfaction that Loren is alone as well, that he is not the only one who does not think Rabanastre so dangerous, and stops so that the other man might catch his breath before moving onward.

“Good afternoon, Loren. Is everything all right?”

“Sir. Yes, sir. We didn’t… that is,” he glances around Vayne, to where the soldiers stand, and seems at least slightly relived at the sight of the guard. Loren looks disheveled enough that Vayne doesn’t bother to correct the assumption. “You didn’t leave word where you had gone, sir, and some hours have passed since then. There were… concerns.”

Which means the time Loren hadn’t used in searching had been spent composing his explanation to the Emperor for when they finally found the Lord Consul’s body. Surely there must be an official royal template out there somewhere, to speed that up a bit. 

“I do apologize.” Which doesn’t at all preclude Vayne from doing it again, but let that be a surprise for another day. “I wished to see a bit of the city for myself and fell in with an interesting crowd. It was well worth the time of speaking with them. I do regret if I caused any undue alarm.”

“I wouldn’t buy what he’s selling at discount,” a familiar voice calls out as they reach the edge of the palace grounds, Cid with a sheaf of papers in his hand, not bothering to look up at his approach.

“I hope that isn’t classified.” Vayne chides back, and Cid makes a face. 

“What, you don’t trust your guard? Besides,” he slaps the stack against his other hand, “if Rozarria could rebalance this mess for me I’d be tempted to let them have the lot.”

Vayne keeps walking, and the doctor steps in beside them, and they might as well be back in Archades if not for Loren keeping pace on his other side, curiosity momentarily overcoming his politeness.

“I thought you’d sorted all that out ages ago,” Vayne says.

“They’re all too damn smart for their own good.” Cid complains, but there’s no actual disappointment in his tone. “We just finished calibrating for the maximum outputs, and five minutes before I ship out they throw a new set of figures at me. Fifteen and a half percent increase in power. _Fifteen and a half._ It’s brilliant - but it also throws off everything. A dreadnought can bear the extra plating it’ll take to hold the strain, but anything less? A light cruiser won’t get off the ground with that much added weight, and even then I’m not sure the engine won’t just tear the damn thing to pieces, to say nothing of trying to slow it down if we ever dare bring it to full speed.”

A perpetual battle in the skies, always the demand for more power, more guns, more speed without disrupting the balance a ship needs to stay in the sky. How to make the strongest, fastest and most devastating warship without overweighting the stones. The moogles wrote the basic principles, a constant for centuries, but once again Nethicite is turning all the old laws on their heads. It’s been a constant game of innovation and adaptation, learning as they go. Cid might complain, but Vayne has never seen him more well-contented.

“So I’ll expect the answer by dinner,” he says, and Cid snorts. Vayne pulls a small crystal from his pocket, handing it over. “When you have a moment.”

Cid takes it, lifts it to the sun briefly before pulling out a jeweler’s loupe, one of his ever-present tools. He studies the gem in a contemplative silence.

“Nice lines on it. Obviously not high-grade material to start, but it’s an inventive choice of faceting. Whoever this is, they’ve nearly doubled the power in cutting it like this. Rozarrian import?

“It was cut here in the city. By hand.”

Cid looks up at him, impressed but perhaps not so surprised. Vayne tends to deal in impossibilities. “I’d like to see that.”

“I told him to drop by. One of the local shipwrights. They’re all being utterly wasted here. Between the Marshals and the Lord Regent they’ve grounded every bike in the city, and half of them can’t even work as mechanics on what needs to be repaired.” He can see this is all little surprise to Loren, and Vayne wonders what work the man’s been letting slip through on the side, what else he knows of in Rabanastre that he might convinced to share. 

“So you’ll have it all fixed by dinner, then.” Cid says, and looks at the gem for another moment with an appreciative eye before tucking it away for later study. “How is your brother enjoying the palace?”

“What?”

“Well, he’s not with you now, so I assumed…” Cid trails off at Vayne’s stare, and pulls another one of his tools - a collapsable spyglass - handing it over and pointing back the way they’d come, out across the city and past the Aerodrome to where a ship hangs in the distance. 

“His ship came in with the _Tyche_.” Which means several annoying meetings Vayne’s going to dodge for as long as he can, but he’s not thinking about that now. Really, he doesn’t need to look, Cid knows better than anyone what ships are in the skies, especially one he put there nearly single-handed, and there it is, trailing a bit behind the _Tyche_ just past the edge of the city - the _Balius_.

Larsa’s ship, here in Rabanastre. 

“Loren.”

“Yes, Lord Consul?”

He keeps his voice steady, always. Affected boredom is the only default worth a damn.

“Is my brother in the palace?”

“No, sir. We’ve had no word…”

“Have men sent to the Aerodrome, if he is in need of an escort. Clear anything I have scheduled for the rest of the day, and turn away anyone seeking an audience. Did we mark all the exits we’ve discovered beneath the palace?”

“Not quite all, sir.”

“I want men stationed in pairs at all of them, and on every entrance into the palace as well, not just those at the outer walls. I will need a few messengers, if there has been no word sent from the _Tyche_. I would like to locate my brother as soon as possible.”

“Of course, Lord Consul.”

If Loren is at all surprised by the sudden flurry of orders, there is not much to be said about it. He bows and retreats toward the main doors, and then they are alone, though Vayne cuts through the gardens toward the closest entrance he can think of, the silence around them suddenly far more oppressive and he can’t feel the heat at all.

It would take so little. One single angry, lucky fool. It wouldn’t even need to be an attack against him, there’s no hiding what his brother is. Larsa is every inch the noble Imperial, worth making an example of even if they’d never heard his name, and it’s barely been a day, less that if he counts back from the moment they struck and… 

“So _now_ you care for the danger.” Cid says, pushing to keep up. “Eleven whole hours, was it, before they tried to take your head off? Even for you that must be some kind of record.”

“Only outside of the Empire,” Vayne says, still distracted, cursing himself for a fool. It’s ridiculous to think he has control of this, of anything. All of it a delusion of ego, pretending that a haughty attitude is somehow a defense against the whims of circumstance. “The rebellion is of little consequence. We push back one attack from Rozarria, and all Dalmasca will think the better of our presence here.”

It’s difficult not to start acting the fool, to bark out more orders, though after the fete the palace is already on high alert. He takes a careful breath, forcing his steps to slow so that the doctor can catch up. Only then does Vayne notice his heart is pounding. At least he does not have to waste the effort trying to hide it anymore.

“No one on the Tyche is about to risk your brother’s safety, and Gabranth is always with him,” Cid says with logical certainty. “Who would ever dare to challenge _that_ , let alone hope to survive it?”

“I can’t imagine what possessed him to come here now.” Vayne says, and the few moments it takes to reach the palace feel like ages. He resents the time it takes even to push the door open.

“Oh, it’s unforgivably reckless,” Cid says agreeably. “One can only imagine where he acquired the habit. I’m amazed you didn’t give them all weapons first, just to make it a proper challenge.”

The doctor is goading him on purpose. Trying to take his attention off all the vague horrors his mind is only too happy to set out before him. It’s funny, it ought not to work, Vayne should know better than to feel reassured, and yet…

“If I shut myself away, they’ll think they actually accomplished something. Fear _is_ the weapon, Cid. If it’s to be my hesitation or my blood, they’re free to paint the walls with it. But I’m not about to-”

Vayne expects no one to be in the hall, at most perhaps a maid or a soldier on their rounds. So the girl is a bit of a surprise, though she seems equally startled at the sight of him. 

The dress is Archadian, a simple affair in gold and pale blue, and a good choice for a Dalmascan girl, if he can venture such a guess from her pale hair and tan skin and how truly and utterly petrified she is at the sight of him. Vayne knows exactly what he is capable of, and it _still_ seems a bit too much fear, the sort of horror befitting an Esper or a seven-hour Senate deliberation. He does his best to gentle his amusement into his most mannered smile.

“Hello, there. I don’t believe I’ve had the honor.”

She faints very well for a Dalmascan, the tiniest little chirp of sound and just like that, down she goes. Vayne is grateful for the reflexes and practice of many social gatherings where collapsing on a man is as likely as punctuation at the end of a sentence. Those girls, however, were just as quick to come to their senses, seizing the advantage of close quarters as an opportunity for flirtation or to be disappointed at their aim, discovering the man they’d sought was not the one to catch them. Vayne has been on the receiving end of both kinds. It’s much easier to deal with the latter.

“Miss? Are you all right?”

No answer. The girl is a dead weight in his arms. 

Cid looks at him in puzzlement. “What did you do that for?”

“You could be helpful or get me a chair or _something_.”

Fortunately there is a sitting room only a few steps down the hall, and he is rather grateful the girl chose a gown that makes her easy to carry, though even when she’s settled carefully on the couch she does not stir. Vayne studies her for a moment, quietly.

“I am trying to imagine a way in which this is not my brother’s doing.”

“It certainly has that Solidor air of utter inexplicability.” Cid says dryly.

“Stay with her, I’ll be back shortly.”

He leaves the room, the doctor’s final remarks following him out. 

“Royal insurrections. Gangs of rogue shipwrights. Enigmatic, fainting women. It’s like I never left home.”


	10. Chapter 10

The odd scratching noise doesn’t wake her, it’s too quiet for that. It is unfamiliar, though, and doesn’t make sense, and so Penelo opens her eyes before she can think the better of it. She doesn’t recognize the fabric under her cheek or the pattern in the tile she’s gazing at or even _why_ she doesn’t know where she is. 

The sound stops as she sits up, replaced by the rustling of the skirts she’s wearing, carefully laid out around her to keep from wrinkling and Penelo raises a hand to her hair, still so carefully bound up, and that’s when she remembers everything.

“Ah, welcome back.”

The cheerful voice still startles her, a man perched at the other end of the sofa she’d been laid upon. Penelo has a vague, dim recollection of him, that he’d been standing with the Lord Consul when she - when… oh gods.

“Are you feeling better?” He says politely, even with his gaze fixed to a pile of papers in his other hand. “They’ve brought by refreshments, if it helps.” 

The glass on the table is cold, condensation bleeding through her glove when she lifts it. It’s a testament to how rattled she is that Penelo doesn’t realize it’s champagne, not water, until she’s on her second swallow and her drink is more than half-empty. At least it’s cold, and sharp, and if it dulls the edge of her nervousness… Penelo’s not even sure if that’s a good idea or not, or if it even matters. Maybe the Lord Consul will believe her, that she’s nobody from nowhere and not worth his time. Maybe he won’t care enough to ask. The thought of coming up with some story - any story, no matter how harmless - makes her mouth dry up along with every word she might speak. The last thing Penelo wants to do is try to lie to Vayne Solidor. 

The scratching that she’d heard is the man’s pen moving in odd, furious stops and starts across the page. It isn’t until he shifts his glasses back up on his nose and glances up at her that Penelo realizes she’s been leaning forward to watch. The words on the page are practically illegible, mixed in with diagrams that make no more immediate sense.

“Never be good at anything, that’s my advice.” He shakes his head. “First they call you a visionary, and then you spend the rest of your time signing off on everyone else’s paperwork, and making thirteen alterations a day to the safety protocols, and making sure they all sign off on those. My one rule for success is to avoid it at all costs.”

“Um, sure.” Penelo says, because at the moment it seems rather a manageable order, and the man looks up, blinking as if truly seeing her for the first time, and smiles. It lights him up, and Penelo catches a glimpse of a much younger man behind what now seems only a facade of age and respectability. It’s impossible not to smile back.

“Forgive me, my manners are nonexistent. They usually know better than to let me out to menace the countryside.” He bows, or as close as he can get while sitting down. “Doctor Cidolfus Bunansa, at your service. Or Cid, to save us some time.”

“Penelo. My name is Penelo.” Well that’s at least one whole sentence, and her voice isn’t even shaking. The man doesn’t seem to notice her hesitance, still mostly distracted by his notes even though he’s trying to be attentive. It’s oddly charming, in a way. 

“I don’t suppose you might hold this for me?”

“Of course,” Penelo says, which is how she comes to be carrying a large sheaf of papers and a spare pen and eventually an open ledger of some kind as Cid flicks his way through an abacus, making notations in the book she’s holding when he’s not muttering under his breath, although sometimes he does both at once. If he is in league with the Lord Consul, then he’s a dangerous person and she ought to be frightened, but he just… he doesn’t look like a man who wants to do her harm. 

He reminds her mostly of one of the older men who play bocce in the city courtyards, trading friendly insults with each other all day long and never forgetting to greet her when she runs by. He isn’t threatening her, or interrogating her. If anything, the Doctor seems on the verge of forgetting she is here at all, flipping through the pages of the book she’s holding as Penelo catches glimpses of notations and sketches - sometimes upside down, but other times the drawings are faced toward her, or stretched lengthwise across the page. The most impressive of these includes one particularly detailed sketch of an airship, half of it presented in a cross-section, to reveal the systems at work beneath. Penelo tips her head, trying for a better look.

“I do apologize, this is my first visit to Rabanastre,” he says, when a drop of sweat suddenly splashes against the page, “at what time ought I expect the sun to simply crash into the city?” 

The Archadian dress is a bit warmer than what she’s used to, but even in her own clothes this is the time of day Penelo usually spends hiding from the sun, perhaps balancing the books from the relative comfort of Migelo’s largest cooler. Cid grins at her sympathetic smile, abandoning propriety in favor of using his glove as a makeshift handkerchief, wiping at his brow.

“I would ask how they manage to build around here, but I imagine it is easier when you can smelt bare-handed.”

“The hottest work happens at night, and they’ll push through until the dawn. No one does much now, in the middle of the day. It’s the time for talking up new ideas.” Penelo gestures to his drawing. “I think you have that part down quite well.”

“What do you think?” Cid asks, proudly certain of the answer, and Penelo can’t blame him. Little more than hazy lines on paper, and she can still imagine how it will look in the sky.

“It’s beautiful. It reminds me a little of the _Balius_.”

“It ought to, that ship’s got the best of everything I had to give her.”

“You… designed Lord Larsa’s airship?”

Cid nods as if such things are commonplace, and though he still does not frighten her, now Penelo can be absolutely certain he is nothing like the old men in the courtyards.

He looks at her, curious. “Just how did you and he meet in Bhujerba?”

“I… um…” Penelo knows she’s done nothing wrong and the truth still makes her sound guilty of everything. “I was… well, there was… I suppose first, there was a sky pirate. His name was Balthier.”

“Balthier?” Cid says, and he seems unduly amused, though she can’t imagine why. “Pray, do continue.” 

“Cid, a lady is not a writing desk.”

Penelo doesn’t jump at the sound of that voice, mostly because she is buried beneath paperwork, but at least that gives her something to hold onto and an excuse not to stand up and find a way to keep from falling over again as the Lord Consul steps into the room. 

Gods, he wasn’t the one who’d caught her, was he?

Cid makes a face, taking the book away from her, but Penelo can’t think to move before Larsa is beside her, crouched down again as if she were in any way his equal. He notices her new dress, she can tell, but if it puzzles him he makes no mention of it.

“Are you all right? My brother said he’d startled you quite badly.” Larsa frowns. “I understand that you were… leaving? I hope I might convince you to stay a while longer. I apologize for my rudeness, I did not intend to bring you home only to abandon you here for so long.”

As strange and impossible as everything has been up until now, nothing quite captures the moment of having Larsa there beside her with the Lord Consul only a few steps beyond. The kindest boy she’s ever met, and a man she fears more than anything else, the resemblance between them even more striking now that they’re together.

“No, I… I’m all right, thank you. I was just… I thought I ought to…” Her hands flutter absurdly in front of her, not sure where to land, Penelo certain only that she looks ridiculous. “I didn’t wish to intrude any further than I had.”

A noble lady would have called for a carriage, and never considered sneaking out the back door. A noble lady would have done a lot of things, and she’s likely betraying herself now in a thousand little ways. Even before she’d been an orphan in Lowtown, Penelo had no right to be here. All there is left to do is wait for Vayne to call her on it, and then there will be questions and more questions and she fights to keep from clenching her hands into fists. Whatever is coming, she must be brave.

“Well,” the Lord Consul says, “as my brother has provided us with a guest to entertain and I’ve already put off working for most of the morning, I suppose there is only one sensible course of action.”

————————————————

It’s all another kind of dance, politeness and propriety as regimented as any steps she’s ever learned. Penelo might not be as skilled in these particulars as she is in a quadrille, but she knows enough to allow Larsa to help her to her feet, to smile and nod to the Lord Consul when he extends the invitation and tell him yes, of course, it would be her honor to stay for the midday meal. It doesn’t matter if her heart is pounding, the fear making her dizzy and nearly breathless as they move from room to room. All that matters is that her steps are graceful and sure, and that when she passes a mirror the Penelo who looks back seems as if she belongs here. Archadian ladies are expected to be ornamental or invisible, all she has to do is smile vacantly and keep quiet and not think about anything beyond the boundaries of the table, and she might still make it out alive.

Lunch is served in a terrace on a private corner of the palace grounds, surrounded by tiled pools and green vines crawling up the trellises that arch high above the table, blocking out the worst of the sun. It’s far more familiar to be on the other side of the a meal like this, pouring drinks for rich Archadians and listening to gossip while pretending she’s invisible, waiting for the next task at hand. At home, Penelo’s used to mending while she cooks, and cleaning while she eats. It’s strange to have nothing to do with her hands. She’s almost jealous of Cid, buried in his notes when he’s not fanning himself with them. Servants dart to and from the table - more drinks, more champagne, and brightly-colored ices to start the meal, set in the shape of flowers, so delicate and lovely she doesn’t know if she dares to ruin them by tasting.

The Doctor has no such reservations, Cid reaching absently for his own bowl with one hand, crunching the delicate sculptures to pieces with his spoon, never even looking up from his notes. She doesn’t hide her dismay well enough, if the amused look on Vayne’s face is anything to go by.

The Lord Consul is nearly always smiling, small and quiet, as if he finds the whole of the world to be slightly absurd. Penelo has no idea what to make of it.

“You have the soul of a poet, Cid, truly.” 

The Doctor waves his spoon in the air dismissively, not bothering to look up.

At least the Judge Magister is back, so when she’s not being scared silly by the Lord Consul all she has to do is move her head a quarter of an inch to have him watching her from the other side of the room. Penelo can’t help but notice him, her eyes flicking over at the slightest shifting of his armor, though of course no one else pays him the slightest attention.

“… and you were finally able to have them outbidding each other instead of bothering you. Nicely done, little brother.”

Larsa and Vayne have been speaking of his time aboard the _Tyche_ , of Archadian politics on such familiar terms that she cannot follow the conversation, and Penelo’s rather grateful for it. The more time they spend on the business of their home, the less attention there is on Dalmasca, or on her. The Lord Consul still casts a curious glance in her direction, now and then, but Penelo has not quite met his gaze and hopes to keep it that way.

“It was not my intention.” Larsa says, half-annoyed and half-chagrined. “All they truly wished to know of was the Nethicite. I did not think there were so many different ways to say ‘I don’t know.’” He frowns. “You said you did not expect a warm welcome, but these men…”

“Tibsen thinks I’m weak and the rest of them believe I’m incompetent. Away from home and therefore out of my depth.” Vayne says it as if the thought is far more pleasing than praise. “Is there anything else I ought to hear of, concerning the Lord Consul’s imminent failure?”

“It was difficult to get them to agree to much of anything,” Larsa says, “but a common sentiment was that most of the city’s problems have their origin in a place called Lowtown. A maze of makeshift housing for those displaced during the occupation. It was their belief that the rebels’ stronghold lay within.”

Penelo’s breath catches, and she carefully sets down the glass she’s holding, before it betrays the way her hand is trembling. It isn’t true, of course. It couldn’t be true. If the rebels had been in Lowtown, she’d have known all about it - Vaan would have known it, and been gone ages ago. She might protest - but she can’t, or they’ll ask how she knows, if they even believe her at all, or care.

Larsa would care, but he is not Lord Consul.

“I have heard of the place. An issue we will have to address at some point.” Vayne’s voice is as calm as ever, with no idea how he measures her life out with each idle word.

Larsa grins. “It sounds a bit like Old Archades, doesn’t it?”

Penelo sees the look that passes between them, but she doesn’t understand it, some private joke or reference that Larsa finds quite amusing, while Vayne obviously does not share the sentiment. 

“You think I’ve ignored the fact that you’re here against my wishes - not to mention those of the Crown - and have also hijacked an innocent girl into serving as your excuse.”

“Kidnapped.” Cid says.

Vayne raises an eyebrow. “Truly?”

The doctor nods. “Before she was hijacked. It seems she fell afoul of that notorious sky pirate Balthier.” 

He says it flippantly enough, but Penelo’s stomach plummets through the floor, into the sands beneath the palace and just keeps going as Vayne looks to her and she sees the exact moment of his recognition.

“You were the girl in the palace, after the fete. You came for the boy who was sent to the dungeons.”

Larsa’s eyes go wide. “You sentenced him to _Nalbina_?“

“Well, there was that little matter of the attempt on my life.” Vayne says dryly.

“Vaan would never do that! He wouldn’t hurt anyone!” 

The words come out of her in a rush, with every ounce of vehemence she can manage, even as Penelo knows it isn’t entirely the truth. Maybe Vaan hadn’t gone into the palace looking for blood, but he certainly wouldn’t have been upset, had the Lord Consul not survived the night. It frightens her to know that she’s not certain what he might have done, had it been his choice to make.

“Of course not.” Vayne - impossibly - seems to agree with her. “Your friend is simply a young man with a sense of adventure and incredibly bad timing. Hardly the first. Balthier can be very convincing for a man raised by wolves. Or degenerates.”

“Degenerate wolves.” Cid mutters from the depths of his notes.

“I do wonder, though, if you have any idea what he was looking for in the palace vaults, and why?” Vayne asks.

“Nothing.” Penelo says, trying not to feel angry, that once again she’s here cleaning up Vaan’s mess - except that it’s better this way, she has much more experience with this part. “He wanted… he just wanted to take something, anything from the palace. It didn’t matter what it was, just a stupid…” Penelo bites her lip, feeling the tightrope sway beneath her, truth and diplomacy forever at odds, uncertain how much she can afford to give away or if it even matters now. “Vaan lost his brother in the war, and he’s been… drifting, since then. He doesn’t know what he wants, or what he ought to do next. So he just _does_ these things, he doesn’t _think_ …”

“You don’t agree?”

It shouldn’t be her, here. It should be someone better, smarter, a true Dalmascan noble instead of her pathetic, slapdash imitation - but Penelo _is_ here now, and the Lord Consul has asked what seems to be an honest question, attempting to measure the mood of his new home. It’s her obligation, isn’t it, for Rabanastre, for everyone she knows, to try and find some common ground? The table is cool under her hand, and steady when nothing else is, and her gloves hide the white-knuckled grip on her spoon.

“He didn’t tell me what he was going to do, or I never would have let him go.” Penelo says. “It’s been two years for those of us in the city, not knowing what might happen next, or when… and now… really, we’re not so different, are we? We were all the same Empire once, under Raithwall’s banner.” She’s cribbing badly from some of the drunker philosophies she’s overheard while taking inventory, Migelo and the other merchants musing on the greater meaning of all that’s happened. Trust a trader to make the best of things, even if that means spinning it from whole cloth. “We’re merchants here in Rabanastre. Our city is built on new arrivals, on the fresh and the different. We couldn’t survive otherwise. Everything changes, we know that. It’s a part of our lives.“

 _I can’t watch anyone else die._ Now there’s the real truth, beneath all her silly equivocating. Penelo can’t see more blood in the streets, not Vaan’s or Migelo’s - not the Lord Consul, even if that means sacrificing Dalmasca’s freedom forever. It makes her the worst kind of traitor, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

“The past is the past. We can’t forget it, or those that were lost - but we have to go on.”

Does it sound good, or pathetic? Penelo wonders if the Lord Consul can hear between the lines, everything she couldn’t say - _what if you’re lying, what hope do we have then?_ and _what happens to Vaan now, if he returns to Rabanastre?_ but if he does there’s no sign of it as he lifts his glass, and Penelo realizes she has sort of given a toast.

“Well said - to the future.”

\----------------------

What's left of the melted ices are hurried away, and from the corner of her eye Penelo catches a green glimmer from where the servants are standing, just past the edge of the wall. Which of them, she wonders, is trustworthy enough to cast that spell, checking for poison on every dish that passes?

Until today, Penelo’s most exceptional adventure had been a single trip to Balfonheim, and it had only been wondrous by her provincial standards, seeing the ships and the ocean at her father’s side in the middle of the great unknown. At the time she’d thought it would be only the first of so many amazing journeys, but it had quickly become a memory Penelo clung to, desperately. A reminder that things had been different, that there was a world out there even if she couldn’t imagine how she might ever see it again.

Now here she is, dining with royalty, with all she’d had in Balfonheim is arrayed before her, a dainty plate of mussels and one of clams and a tray of fresh oysters, raw in the shell. It’s been years, but she remembers exactly the moment her father had first presented them to her. He’d been so delighted, nothing like them to be found in Rabanastre, at least not that they could afford, and like no food she’d ever seen. She’d been dubious, but not willing to hurt her father’s feelings, and oh, the taste of them - sour-salty, crisp and clean and just like the sea, like nothing else. 

It’s difficult not to slip a hand free from her glove, to touch the rough shell, but even without that sensation it’s like stepping right back into that memory, like she’s young again and free - and so much for thinking it’s safe, if she keeps her thoughts on the meal.

Larsa is much more fond of the clams, while the Lord Consul is eating nothing but oysters himself. The Doctor is the only one who seems to be avoiding the seafood entirely, poking at something brown and breaded she doesn’t recognize, trying to cut it with a fork while still studying his notes. He looks up after the fifth or sixth attempt to find her watching. Penelo is not so afraid to meet his eyes, or to give his food a curious stare.

“Scotch egg.” He says, glancing pointedly away when she picks up another oyster. 

“Typical Archadian palate,” Vayne says, earning him another dismissive wave from Cid’s side of the table. It’s possible not to jump out of her skin every time she finds he’s watching because it’s clear the Lord Consul is _always_ watching. Maybe it isn’t anything she’s done or that he suspects her of - maybe this is nothing more than the same curiosity that Larsa shares, sharpened by the obligations of his authority.

He certainly doesn’t act like she’s come to expect from Archadian nobles, those men and women who are distracted at best and indifferently cruel at worst. It would be more offensive if they treated each other with any more kindness - but just look at Rhiale and her sister. The Baron likely did not spend an extra moment with them when he wasn’t showing them off. He did not even treat them as guests, merely property. If she had stayed with Larsa in that meeting, Penelo knew very well what she could expect - a pile of men trying to shout over one another, puffed up with importance and aware of nothing beyond the scope of their immediate concerns.

The Lord Consul listens. He smiles at his servants, even murmuring his thanks now and then, as if they’re actual people. He is attentive when his brother speaks, and it is easy to see the affection between them, why Larsa thinks so highly of his brother. He makes fun of Cid and expects the Doctor to return his taunting with interest - they bicker like the oldest and best of friends. 

Vayne Solidor has the kind of power the rest of those men spend all their time fighting for, and he knows it. Penelo’s rather sure he knows _she_ knows it, and yet he has asked nothing more of her, even after discovering her connection to Vaan. He doesn’t even seem all that concerned, even the idea of his assassination only a passing curiosity. He is nothing like she expected, and she has no idea what he is instead, or what it means that she’s more and more certain that boring him is no more a safe prospect than simply speaking her mind.

The second course arrives, and while Larsa receives a rather intricate but tame-looking salad, she and Vayne have been presented with… well, she has had lobster before, on that same trip with her father, but not quite so fresh that it is still twitching when it hits the table. Cid lets out a long-suffering sigh, his glasses dropping to the end of their chain, preferring a less-than-clear view of what’s to come.

“You don’t have to eat that.” Larsa says, giving Vayne an exasperated look that is returned with equanimity.

Is he making fun of her? Is this some sort of challenge, and he’s expecting her to lose her nerve? Maybe she ought to, but Penelo’s not about to quail at the sight of a few twitching legs, although it would help if she could be sure which bit of silverware she’s supposed to use, far more familiar with selling, packing and shipping such finery.

“Left of the dinner fork.” Larsa murmurs, trying not to smile.

“… of course,” Penelo says just as softly, trying not to smile back. Neither of them succeed very well. 

The lobster is amazing, sweet and tender like nothing she’s ever tasted. It doesn’t escape her notice that the Doctor’s new plate is somewhat similar to his old one - exactly similar, really. It doesn’t escape Vayne’s notice, either.

“Just what do you have there?”

“Eat your live bait and leave me be.” Cid mutters, but when Vayne continues to stare he finally relents, slicing a precise cross-section through his course to reveal… two Scotch eggs, instead of one. The Lord Consul sighs, gesturing to one of the servants.

“Take this away, and no more eggs for him. Imperial decree.”

“Tyrant.” Cid mutters, obviously considering the benefits of spearing one of Larsa’s tomatoes and launching a bombardment. He looks to her, and straightens his shoulders a bit, regally. 

“There’s nothing at all wrong with an Archadian palate.” 

“Except for the food part.”

Cid makes a face. “I like a good rare steak.”

“That hardly signifies.” Vayne says. “Everyone likes a good rare steak. If you liked a well-done steak I’d have you exiled.”

The next course moves a little closer to home, turtle meat, but mixed with a blend of spices she’s not familiar with - Rozarrian, perhaps? It’s just as delicious as the last. The Lord Consul’s plates always match hers, and she finally wonders if he isn’t teasing or testing her, only enjoying a guest with tastes as adventurous as his own. Penelo never believed she was particularly daring, but there won’t be a second chance at a meal like this, and she’d be a fool to pass it up. 

The Doctor does not think so highly of the opportunity - his next dish is an alarming shade of off-white lumps buried beneath an equally dismal shade of gray. Vayne watches him with a sort of resigned dismay.

“You won’t touch the spices, but you’ll fall on the… whatever that is like a starving man. What _is_ that? Is that a spleen?”

Cid smirks proudly. “This is the spleen that built an Empire.”

“Do stop waving that thing around. There is a lady present.”

Penelo giggles, she can’t help it, surprised at herself and surprised that no one seems upset with her for it. She is startled most of all by the realization of how pleasant this all is, that if she doesn’t think about exactly what’s happening, she’s actually enjoying herself. The food is delicious and beautiful and strange, tiny plates filled with flavors she’s never imagined, though even Vayne has to pause when a servant staggers to the table with a sea creature the size of a bowling ball, the colorful shell covered with spikes and seemingly impenetrable. 

“Well, this looks ill-advised.”

Cid is suggesting high explosives by the time they discover a piece of the shell has been carefully detached, the cool meat carefully spiced, chilled and waiting inside.

The chef is Archadian, obviously, and so Penelo’s not expecting what comes next: Cid with another beige-on-beige triumph, Vayne with a rather normal-looking piece of game bird and Larsa with one to match - but the servant winks as he sets a plate down in front of her, and she knows it by smell even before he pulls the lid away, glistening _dolmas_ all lined up in a row. 

Larsa looks curious, and Penelo pushes the plate a bit in his direction, to give him a better view.

“Grape leaves. Rice. Meat and spices. It’s nothing special.” 

A few other ingredients, depending on who made them, though there’d been less options as the war dragged on. The last time Penelo can remember making them as they ought to be made had been as part of the celebration dinner, before her brothers had left for the border. Before there had even been a war at all and it had only seemed part of some grand adventure and her mother had worried while her older brother laughed and ate most of her share when she wasn’t looking. Penelo had been furious, and told him she wouldn’t write, that she’d be glad when he was gone. If only she’d known, if only… but really, what could have changed? What could any of them have done differently, against the power of the Empire? 

“Penelo?”

Larsa’s not as frightening as his brother, but no less perceptive, and even keeping her thoughts to the table isn’t working now. She manages a smile, it’s easy to smile at Larsa, and who could ever have imagined an Archadian like him?

“I haven’t had these in a long time, is all.” Penelo takes one, and offers him the plate. Larsa accepts, and she turns to Vayne who accepts and then points across the table. It takes a moment for Cid to realize he’s being cornered, and he blinks at her, obviously still lost in the middle of some complex equation.

“Ah… thank you, but…”

“Doctor.” Vayne says, amusement beneath a thin veneer of sobriety. “You’ll hurt the feelings of our guest.”

Cid glares. “This is why nobody likes you.”

Vayne is unmoved. “It might even cause a diplomatic incident.”

The Doctor seems about a breath away from several such incidents himself, but he turns to Penelo with a gracious smile, and almost doesn’t flinch when the smallest of the _dolmas_ hits his plate. Larsa is already halfway through his own, and Penelo takes a bite of one, quietly pleased to discover that they are nowhere near as good as the ones she used to make. To his credit, Cid does take a forkful without flinching, and Penelo watches him chew with trepidation slowly shifting into relief.

“You see,” Vayne says, “you can barely taste the eyeballs.”

Larsa coughs out a laugh while Penelo hides a smile behind her hand and the rest of Cid’s _dolma_ very nearly goes airborne. She is about to suggest a few other, blander dishes he might want to try, and which spices to avoid entirely when a chirp echoes out, and then a louder warble in the distance, the call-and-response of a pair of chocobos on the palace grounds beyond the wall. It sounds more than a little disgruntled, at best. Larsa glances in the direction of the commotion, and then to his brother.

“We’ve been having trouble keeping them stabled since the airships swept through.” Vayne sighs. “No more pleased with me than anyone else has been. If I can’t get rid of you, perhaps you can think of some way to calm them down.”

Larsa seems to have several ideas - Penelo can all but see the plans coming together behind his eyes.

“It reminds me, I saw a rather large flock on the dunes as we approached the city.” Larsa looks to her. “I think they must have been wild birds, but I’ve never seen the like - quite narrow-bodied and very fast. A strange, pale gold, nearly white at the tips of their primaries?”

Penelo can imagine the moment easily enough, Larsa leaning over the railing with a looking glass fixed to the ground and the Judge Magister’s hand on his coat to keep him from going right over the side. She wonders if he was able to order the ship to circle around for a second look.

“King Raithwall’s own birds,” she says, knowing the sort of reaction that will bring, nearly laughing at his instant delight.

“Truly?”

“The descendants of those chocobos set free after his death, if you believe the legends. It is said they refused to follow any other master. The flocks live amidst the desert cliffs and Jagd sands. They’re difficult to find and nearly impossible to catch.”

“I had heard the tribes have their own flocks of birds as well…” Larsa says wistfully. “On the _Tyche_ , they said they have had little luck trading beyond the city walls. It does not agree with them to deal with Archadians.”

“It’s not you.” Penelo says. “Not Archadia, I mean. It doesn’t agree with them to deal with anyone. City folk aren’t plains people either, and they’re happy to let us know it.”

The thought hits her then, hard enough to knock every other one out of her head - this is her chance to repay Larsa for all he’s done, to square any semblance of a debt between them. Except there’s no way to do it without giving herself away completely, if there’s anything the Lord Consul hasn’t figured out. It’s her mother’s voice in her head, scolding her for being a showoff, for always having to be right - but being brave and keeping her head down has only gotten her more of the same - nothing. And it will make Larsa smile, and she wants to see Larsa smile.

Oh, she’s an idiot, that’s for sure.

“I can get you one. An egg, from one of Raithwall’s birds. It’s rare, but now and then they do find one. If you want it, it’s yours.” 

There it is, the smile she’d been hoping for - and it is worth it, even if Larsa looks a little uncertain. “I would not wish to cause you trouble.” 

Penelo shakes her head. “It’s not all that difficult. You just pick a tribe at random. Send them gifts and cut deals in their favor without asking for anything in return. It costs a bit up front, but before long the other tribes will send their men to you, annoyed about being left out, promising they can do one better. It’s more about pride than money, at that point.” All to be done again with each new trade, but it means she doesn’t have to seek out the trader that has what she needs - just prove that she’s ready for business, make a few careful inquiries, and an egg will show up sooner or later.

Larsa looks like he’s already trying to decide on a name - and the Lord Consul… well, of course he’s looking at her. He can probably see exactly how bad she knew this decision would be.

“Are all Dalmascans so skilled in trade?”

“A few more than most, perhaps.” Except he’s not asking about all of them, just the one he’s looking at, and why bother thinking she can hide anymore? “My father made a good life for us, and he taught me much of what he knew.”

Penelo has a few great stories, of clever deals he’d managed to make, though the spoils are likely to be less impressive in her current company.

“So, you are a merchant’s daughter?”

It’s the first time Penelo meets his gaze willingly, head high and jaw set. No matter what, she absolutely refuses to feel shame for her father, but Vayne only looks curious, not at all disapproving.

“We are merchants too, or were once.” Larsa says, one hand against the twin serpents at his throat. “Our House crest honors an ancient god of trade, from even before the foundation of Bur-Omisace.”

“The patron deity of liars, thieves and businessmen.” Vayne says. “So, in your opinion, as a woman in trade - is there anything I ought to try to shamelessly curry favor with the people of Rabanastre?”

“I’m not… I don’t think I’m the one to ask, Lord Consul.”

“I do.” The warning is gentle, but there. He will not allow her to play at ignorance. “When I gave that speech, I imagine you were thinking ‘if this idiot knew half of what I did, we might actually have a chance to make things better.” 

“I didn’t think you were an idiot, Lord Consul.” Many, many other things perhaps - but never a fool.

“Diplomatic as well as beautiful.” Now Vayne is surely teasing her, and Penelo completely forgets to be proper, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Coffee,” she says, feeling the smallest hint of smug triumph at his look of surprise. “Archadia places heavy tariffs on any goods coming through from Rozarria, too heavy for most citizens to bear. It was a simple luxury for many before the war, and we miss it dearly now.”

“You don’t have _coffee_?” Cid says, in the same tone of voice as if Penelo had said they didn’t have air, or legs. “And it took you this long to revolt?”

“Thank you, Cid.” Vayne sighs.

“If you pulled that in Draklor, we’d be on you before lunch.”

“I’m fairly certain the coffee is the only thing keeping half of you upright, so forgive me for not quaking in fear.”

The meal ends much as it began, with simple ices flavored with grated ginger, and Penelo wonders what will happen next. What will be done with her and where it will all go from here, and she doesn’t realize where her thoughts or her gaze has turned until she finds the Lord Consul looking back. Penelo drops her eyes immediately, though it is not fast enough. 

“You are free to ask, you know.”

Penelo might not be quite as terrified as before, but his gaze still makes her feel utterly transparent.

“Lord Consul?”

“Forgive me my hubris, but I can’t imagine there’s a citizen in Rabanastre who doesn’t have at least one question for me, if not far more than that. Please ask, I will be glad to answer if I am able.”

“I don’t think I…”

“Try it anyway. Or if it seems more fair, I will trade you, one for one.”

“Do you miss it?” Penelo says, searching for a safe way to start. “Your home?”

The Lord Consul smiles, knowing such a benign question has not been on anyone’s mind, but too gracious to point it out.

“Archades? I miss the winds, yes. The heights. Watching the clouds chase each other across what seems to be the whole of the world. It certainly has its splendors. Did you find Bhujerba to your liking?”

So this is it. This is having a conversation with the Lord Consul. She can do this.

“I can’t imagine anywhere more beautiful. The merchants from Bhujerba often seemed very proud - now I know why.” Penelo bites a little at her lip, the second question not nearly so easy to ask. “What… are you planning to do in Rabanastre?”

“I would like to extend the airfield, for starters. I believe the city could benefit from the industry, and it would put us at an advantage this close to the border. We could expand perhaps in the Westersands, near the aerodrome.”

“Not there.” Penelo says, before she can think the better of it - but once more the Lord Consul does not react with anger or disdain, only quiet curiosity, waiting for her to explain.

“The old city, Raithwall’s city extended beyond the current boundaries of Rabanastre.” Penelo says. “The Westersand used to slope down into a valley, and the city went with it. Except the wells dried up there, and the desert took it back, but underneath it’s still old buildings, tunnels instead of bedrock. The birds can walk on it, but you wouldn’t want to even take a caravan across it, let alone try to build on top of it.”

Know-it-all Penelo, who really ought to have more sense than to ramble on in front of the Lord Consul, but again he doesn’t seem to mind. 

“What exactly do you do here in town?”

All this time, and Penelo’s kept Migelo’s name out of this, but if the Lord Consul makes any attempt to look for her, the bangaa’s name will show up soon enough. Trying to be circumspect now is only going to look like she has something to hide.

“I work for Migelo, the bangaa responsible for the fete. He was a friend of my father’s. I run orders for him, and look after the shop.”

And haul cargo, and chase down the people Migelo’s too kindly to yell at and do all sorts of other painfully unimpressive things, but she’s made a hash of enough today. The Lord Consul is intrigued by the odd association, she can see it, and she’s surprised when it isn’t the next thing he asks.

“And when you’re not working?”

“I’m always working.” 

He raises an eyebrow, and Penelo blushes, glancing away. “I… dance.”

“You weren’t at the fete.”

“I don’t dance for coin.”

It comes out sharper than she intended, less the pride she’d hoped for and a lot more like disappointment, a lot more like remembering her place. Funny how all this time it’s the Lord Consul she’s been avoiding and now it’s Larsa she doesn’t want to see. Maybe he already knew what she was when he’d dragged her out of the mine, but if not then he certainly does now.

“Well, then, the next time you will have to come as a guest.” Vayne says.

“I think that would be quite excellent.” Larsa adds.

Penelo keeps her eyes down - the blushing’s worse, and she’s being ridiculous and if she had any sense at all she’d stop here. Thank the Lord Consul for his offer and politely try to inquire about which door she might walk out of to get home. Except there are questions she does want the answer to, the impolite ones, out of place at such a pleasant party - but she can’t quite convince herself the Lord Consul was lying, when he said she ought to just ask. 

Penelo wonders if the princess is alive, but does she even want to know? If Ashelia has come back, what might happen next, and where that might lead? Oh, but she already knows where it will lead, or she wouldn’t feel the dread of it. She wouldn’t have to ask.

“How long would it take for you to destroy Rabanastre?”

Cid glances up, a slight frown on his face, but Vayne is as calm as ever, unsurprised by the sudden turn of the conversation.

“By airship? Thirteen hours.”

The air is hot, but Penelo can feel the hair stand up on her arms, even under her gloves. She almost laughs at how fast he can answer, so quick and calm. It’s better to hear it like this, though, the way Archadians no doubt speak with one another about the possibilities, even though the idea of such casual annihilation makes her head spin.

“So long?”

“We would not likely invest the whole of the fleet in the enterprise.”

“It will not happen.” Larsa is there suddenly, leaning in toward her. “Archadia has never raised such arms against its own people so, nor will it. You have my word.” 

The Lord Consul seems as if he might wish to counter that, not in anger but caution, that his brother ought not to make promises he can’t keep - but Larsa looks back fiercely, clearly willing to back up his vow to the very limit of his ability.

It’s Vayne’s turn to ask a question, but Penelo wonders why he even bothers asking anything of anyone, how he doesn’t know everything about her already. It’s difficult to remember all that’s been said, all the secrets she’s given up, or how she’s done absolutely everything but keep her opinions to herself. At least he isn’t likely to think her a spy - no spy could possibly be this stupid. All she can hope is that Vaan isn’t foolish enough to return to the city, that Balthier might find a place for him and-

“How many people did my Empire take from you?”

“… That -that’s not fair.” Penelo doesn’t mean to whisper, but it’s suddenly very hard to breathe. “You can’t… you can’t ask me that.” 

“Penelo…” Larsa says, a tone full of apology even as he’s glaring at Vayne, but the Lord Consul looks at her and there’s nothing amused or dangerous or even proud in his gaze, only a quiet sort of patience. He looks exactly like an Emperor ought to look, not quite human and not quite stone. 

“Five.” Somehow the word comes, and Penelo is as surprised as anyone when more words follow. “My parents. Three brothers.” Reks was close enough, more than close enough. “Vaan is all I have left. He’s all I have in the world.”

Vayne nods. He does not apologize for the war, because it wouldn’t be honest and she wouldn’t believe him. He doesn’t promise peace or certainty, the way Larsa does. For a long moment, he says nothing at all.

“I did not ask to upset you.”

“You didn’t. It’s only the truth.” If Penelo were going to buckle beneath it, it would have happened years ago. 

“The truth…” Vayne says, his eyes downcast. After a moment, he looks up at her with the same eyes as his brother, those vast and uncharted seas - though the odd, secret smile is all his own. “I will but speak it plain, then - what will it take to make you one of my advisers?”

“I… what?” How could she possibly have heard him right? “You have… people for that, Lord Consul, I’m sure. People who know… and I’m not…” 

“I have those who tell me what they think I want to hear, or what they want me to hear. A few others, I think, will advise me as best they can about the city as they see it, but you seem to know its inner workings better than most.”

Penelo frowns. “You want me to be a spy?”

The Lord Consul chuckles. “I wish to hear no more than you wish to tell. If I am to be proper Consul of Rabanastre, I must know how the city lives, and I do not have the time I need to learn it. I must make decisions now, with information I don’t have - and those decisions will impact everyone, especially those least able to endure my mistakes. The only way to succeed is to look to those who live here for their guidance. You are who I need, Penelo, for the simple truth of being yourself.” 

Imagine what she might accomplish, if he’s telling the truth. Lowtown might be spared, or at least she might argue for kinder treatment, a more careful understanding. What if he still used her, though, as a spy, and she didn’t even know it? He’s smart enough to do it, that’s more than obvious. What kind of information might she reveal, what damage could she do without even knowing it? 

Can she afford to turn him down? Will he let her turn him down?

“It would pay, of course. I am certain I could make it worth your time.”

Enough money to get her parents’ house back. He might even give it to her, if she asks. All for the price of her loyalty, helping the Empire that took everything from her. What would her mother say, her father and brothers? Could she even step through the door, knowing what she’d done to get it back? 

Just think of the people she’d be able to help.

Vaan would never forgive her.

“I need… I need to think about it, milord.”

“Vayne.”

“ _Lord Consul._ “ Penelo insists, and it earns her another smile. He is so dangerous. He is so sure. He has not lied to her, not yet.

“Please, take all the time you need. If your day has been anything like mine, you are still waiting for the room to stop spinning. I would extend an invitation to stay in the palace, as long as you would like. Or I would offer you a carriage, if you are to return home.”

“Thank you, but I… I’ll be fine. It isn’t so far, and the walk will give me time to think.”

“I will escort you to the gate.” Larsa says, standing.

“Very glad to make your acquaintance.” Cid says, and would obviously love to stand up and say goodbye properly if not for the book across his knees and the other one on top of that, and he settles for briefly taking her hand. “I hope we will see each other again soon.”

“As do I.” The Lord Consul says, and Penelo can pretend that maybe she won’t, that she’ll walk away and never come back; that he’ll never try to find her and this will all be over - but if it were true, would he even let her walk away?


	11. Chapter 11

Vayne watches his brother follow the girl out, a bit of tension fading from the set of Penelo’s shoulders as she turns to look at Larsa, smiling shyly at whatever he’s just said. His brother’s hands are clasped behind his back - a nervous gesture, Larsa believes it makes him look more serious - and after a moment Gabranth moves, as always, to escort them out. It’s not a stretch to say that the Judge Magister is less than happy with being back in Rabanastre so soon, or with having Larsa here - and he does not even know yet, of the particular souvenir Balthier has liberated from Nalbina. 

At times Vayne almost wishes he was slightly less aware of the world. Life would be much more peaceful if his instincts were not set like a pack of wolves on the barest hint of a trail. He knows Larsa is not telling him the entire truth about Bhujerba, and how his path first crossed with Penelo’s. It will be interesting to see how far Gabranth is willing to lie for him - his loyalty is to Larsa, as it ought to be, but Vayne will know the truth anyway, spoken or unspoken. Gabranth does not hide his concerns half as well as he believes he does. He knows that if Penelo had been taken as some lure for Balthier, the sky pirate would have been honor bound to rescue her. If Vayne checks the records of the aerodrome carefully enough, he will no doubt find a Strahl-shaped hole in some anonymous account. 

He trusts Balthier, but if that is true it means that at some point his brother was likely in close proximity to Basch fon Ronsenberg, a man who must truly desire Vayne’s downfall in every way there is to wish for it; if he is even completely sane after two years chained and buried deep in the very epicenter of his failure. 

Who could fault a man, so ill-served and undone for his nobility, for carving out his vengeance in the blood of whatever Solidor happened to cross his path? Who would say it was less than justice, a prince’s life for that of a king? A portion of revenge for an equal serving of betrayal? No one would weep on Vayne’s behalf, and many more might consider it no less than he deserved.

In his ruthlessness, he has finally placed his brother on the board. A piece he cannot remove, when there is no other way to keep him safe - and now, this.

“Larsa fancies her.”

“Hm?”

Cid is cross-checking some bit of information, or perhaps taking down notes on a new theory he’s just come up with or simply doodling in the margins, well aware that few will be smart enough to ever tell the difference. Vayne has often wondered, given his repeated inability to distract the man from any task, just how long it took Cid to notice Venat first hovering beside him. He can imagine the demigod patiently detailing the secrets of the universe, certain of its appreciative audience right up until Cid asked it to pass over a box-ended three-eighths wrench. 

Vayne sighs, tilting his glass in the Doctor’s direction. “Truly, you are the last romantic.”

“I love a good engine manifold.” Cid says. “Did I miss something?”

“Everything, most likely.” It earns him a scowl, as Cid reaches for his own drink. The servants have come and gone, clearing the last of the dishes away, and for the moment they are quite alone. Of all the things Vayne had thought to accomplish today, playing chaperone to a budding infatuation had not quite crossed his mind. “And here I was starting to think I’d have to explain to him how not to get caught with the stableboys.”

Cid snorts. “You have never had it off with a stableboy.”

“Never been caught, at least.”

“I thought she was very well-spoken.” The Doctor says. “If the engineers here are half as competent as their merchants, it’ll be worth my staying around.” 

Vayne could make the argument for it, that this has all been to some sinister end, Ondore training a pretty Dalmascan girl to the purpose… but even his capacity for paranoia has a breaking point. Either the girl’s better at duplicity than he is - and that seems rather unlikely - or Penelo has no artifice in her at all, as baffled by the coincidences piled up around her as anyone could be. It’s not entirely out of the realm of believability: the bangaa receives the job, the boy makes his absurd bid for defiance, leaving Penelo to to scramble for safety and petition Vayne as if he’s the gatekeeper in a fairy story, some cautionary tale on silver-tongued monsters she must never, ever trust.

He hardly needs to dramatize. All her family dead and gone, her life taken away from her by a war she had no part in, and he the face of the Empire that had so thoughtlessly done the deed? As if that’s not a good enough reason to fear him. 

A fair justification for retribution as well - but if she had wanted to murder a Solidor, she had ample opportunity in Bhujerba, not to mention after. If she is in this for some more subtle purpose… Vayne cannot see it. No matter how hard he looks, she is only a girl, without pedigree enough to even be a royal mistress, not that Larsa would ever think along those lines. 

Setting his heart on a war orphan, a foreigner with no wealth or title or House name? It is so like his brother. 

“All this might finally be enough to send the Emperor to his grave,” he muses. “We can cross that one off the list early.” 

Cid looks up at that, but doesn’t speak. A misguided sympathy in his eyes, perhaps, though the Emperor’s opinions no longer matter for anything past the purely practical, for keeping a step ahead of Gramis’ goals. 

“I do hope you’ll stick around, Doctor, to provide some expert courtship advice.”

Cid has his glasses perched on his nose, gazing at him over the rims gives the absurd moment an even more ridiculous sense of gravitas.

“Oh, come now.” Vayne says. “No false modesty. I’m sure you were quite the lady killer back in the days of King Raithwall.”

“I know where you sleep, and I have a cannon.” Cid reminds him. “Besides, you know full well what happened to my attempt. Deflowered half of Ivalice, the way I hear it. Do you really want to be related to an entire new generation?” 

“I saw him in passing.” Vayne says. “Now that he has quit with Nalbina, I imagine Balthier will be after the Princess soon enough.”

“… how does he fare?”

“Rather unhappy to see me.” Vayne says. “In good health, though, and fair spirits for a man in irons, with the viera yet by his side. A spotlight and a musical cue would not have been out of place.”

The rumor that he and Doctor Cid share some sort of sordid, private affair stems entirely from these sorts of moments, how very little between them needs to be spoken to be understood. A half-dozen emotions flit across the Doctor’s face, one chasing the next, and Vayne knows better than to make mention of any of them. 

“So…” Cid says, after a long pause, “I suppose it’s time to give your brother the talk, then? Birds. Bees. Painfully laborious prenuptial agreements. The benefits of eloping to Balfonheim?”

Vayne smirks. “We got that over with years ago, when he took his first interest in chocobo breeding. He wished to know why humes didn’t lay eggs, when it seemed, in his opinion, ‘far more civilized.’ I fobbed it all off on Drace.”

Cid chuckles. “Good gods, I can’t imagine how she took to that.”

“Neither can I, which is why I’m certain she fobbed it off on Gabranth.”

Cid laughs louder, no doubt trying to comport some image of the man out of his armor, let alone in any kind of passionate clinch. It’s easier to imagine a chaise lounge caught in some torrid affair.

“You are certain he knows what women are _for_?”

“One would imagine so,” Vayne says. “It seems when Gabranth was through explaining, my brother could not speak to a lady for over a week without choking on his words. Even Drace, which of course left her stammering as well.”

“The things I miss, stuck in the lab.” Cid says, perhaps the closest it’s ever come to sounding like regret. “Speaking of labs, this business with the coffee…”

“I shall fix that presently.” He had asked for an easy bribe, and the girl had certainly delivered. Coffee and skybikes were perhaps the southern version of bread and circuses, and would suit his needs quite well. “In the meantime, you may feel free to lay waste to the palace stock.”

The bottle of champagne isn’t quite gone, and as Vayne pours out the final drops he remembers the look Penelo had given him - she’d noticed the label, enough to be surprised at his choice. A personal favorite, though neither the most popular of sources nor the best vintage. When she wasn’t busy being frightened, the girl certainly had her opinions on his tastes. It ought to be easy enough to find out if she is who she says she is, and Vayne is not quite above petitioning Migelo, should Penelo prove reluctant to return.

Somehow, he has the feeling she will take him up on his offer. His brother had not been the only one blushing his way through the meal.

The Doctor is counting up the measurements on his latest diagram, index finger twitching for the ones, his middle for the tens and ring for the hundreds. Every now and then the last finger makes note of a thousandths place, and his ledger fills accordingly, the dimensions of some new bit of tech he’s introducing to the fleet.

After a moment, Vayne leans forward, to take a pen and a bit of parchment from the doctor’s prodigious share, with a look to make sure he’s not writing on the back of the next wonder of the modern age. He quickly jots down his orders, the papers for the girl, the decrees to bring skybikes and coffee back to the city, even a formal request for the meeting with the Marshalls, in case they should pretend to forget.

In the beginnings of the Empire, all legal documents were ornately, obsessively illuminated in the hopes of preventing fraud, the crests of the families always included, along with a near-unlimited number of other symbols. A marriage certificate between the right Houses might easily wallpaper half a room. The need for such securities is no longer what it once was - if it ever truly worked at all - but the fashion has continued to this day, most noblemen with a calligrapher dedicated solely to the purpose. House Solidor has an entire building just to house the archives, documents signed at various levels of sobriety by every Solidor who has ever been, the contract-makers sharing space with the official court historian on the floors above the stacks.

He has an calligrapher on retainer, of course, but Vayne’s not completely without ability. A common enough Rozarrian feint, to separate a man from his retinue in the hopes of delaying a contract for one reason or another. Being able to do the work himself had thwarted that particular ruse more than once.

Vayne is not so familiar with how such things have been done with contracts in Dalmasca, but Penelo would not likely have a crest of her own, even so. He sketches out the Solidor insignia, and makes a note for the contract-maker to look up how Migelo’s last agreement was written. The bangaa seems to be her sponsor, or close enough for now. He suggests a border of vines and flowers, the common symbol for a growing partnership - though the flowers ought to be of Dalmascan make, with perhaps one of their tessellated borders to finish it off. It is a bit of a tall order on such short notice, but he imagines there ought to be some time for the scribe to do it up properly. Larsa will likely convince Penelo to take a turn through the gardens, and no doubt stay at the gate for as long as he can manage, scrambling for one more thing to say.

“Thirteen hours to destroy the city?” Cid says into the silence. Vayne had expected the question sooner or later. “I never heard that sort of strategy for the south bandied about, with all the time they spent figuring how long it would take to knock Bhujerba from the sky.”

Neither plan was anything but absurd, especially concerning the sky island, well protected between their surplus of skystone and Archadian vacation homes. Still, every time Ondore made even the slightest gesture of annoyance the maps would come out and the plans begin anew. 

Gramis had once attempted a coup on the island, early on in Ondore’s rule, and its abject, magnificent failure had always made Vayne a bit fond of the Marquis. Cid utterly loathed the man, presumably for his lack of imagination when it came to scientific matters, though Vayne thought it might have more to do with the Archadian shipwrights Ondore had managed to lure away to Bhujerba, before Draklor had attained its current glory.

“Only conjecture, all before the war.” Vayne says. ”No one would consider it now. The Empire wished for an outpost here, a stronghold - not a demilitarized zone.”

In considering such purgatories, he hopes the shipwright, Taneli, has a bit more information for him on Lowtown. A curious situation, like Old Archades without the centuries of constant use to render it permanent and untouchable. If he moves fast, he might well find a better situation for it, and those who live there. Vayne would have pressed Penelo further, but the girl seemed to be on her last vestiges of composure, and he has half a notion that she might even live there herself, or at least be quite familiar with the area. Despite its lawless reputation, Rhedan had mentioned most of Lowtown had been rented out to the poor by the shops above. A conversion of warehouse space into shelters, perhaps skirting legality but still clearly under their ownership. 

Vayne can see it now, what would have surely pleased the High Marshalls and all the men aboard the _Tyche_ , overstepping himself after the fete with a raid on Lowtown - all private property, well past his jurisdiction - and a move that would have gained him the unending ire of every merchant in a merchants’ town. 

He has every intention of overstepping himself, though not in the way they’ll be happy to see.

“I’m think I’m going to require residency in Rabanastre for any Archadian wishing to do business here.”

Cid grins. “You will never get that.”

“Oh, but it will be fun to try.” He gives it three days of meetings at most before they’re running to the Emperor for help, but as long as it keeps Vayne occupied and out of Archades he knows damn well Gramis does not care what he does in Rabanastre. “If they do stick around, perhaps they can give the rebels some tips for their next insurrection. I think Ghis did more damage than the rest of them together.”

“They did try to kill you.” 

“Everyone tries to kill me. It shows they’re paying attention.” He does wonder what it means, that the viera heard he was to be taken alive, when the Princess had clearly done her best to take his head off. A dissension in the ranks? A lack of conviction among even her closest allies, that his death was for the best? It might yet prove useful. “As it stands, I am rather in their debt. I doubt I’ll have much problem with the budget, should we find ourselves in need of extra funds.”

“Damn Rozarrian saboteurs.” Cid says, though the words lack even a cursory heat. An odd fact of life, how many border disputes rise up precisely when it’s time to open the coffers, for the Empires to show their dedication to national defense by the amount of gil they’ll gladly spend on the newest, shiniest toys. And if an airship should misfire in some spectacular fashion, or a piece of lab work not turn out as planned, who’s to say it isn’t the work of some spy sneaking in undetected, requiring an emergency expenditure to set things right? 

Of course, there are similarly convenient Archadian double agents causing problems all over Rozarria, right in all the places it will cost the most to fix.

It amuses him, the petty treacheries wrapped up in the hallowed banners of state, so much profit to be had in carefully tending such mutual dislike. Usually it amuses the Doctor too, but at the moment he is not smiling.

“I did not mean to worry you, Cid.” 

The Doctor makes a face, not bothering to look up. “Who was worried? What death would ever dare to cross a Solidor?”

Vayne glances toward the door, to where his brother has gone. He can’t help it. If only he had the power any of these people feared he had. If only there was a way for an Emperor to wage war against circumstance.

“You know Gabranth won’t let him set one boot past the gate.” Cid says, knowing exactly where his thoughts have strayed. “He’ll be fine.”

“I’m sending him back home with you.”

Cid scoffs. “You can’t be that surprised by this. The first that we heard, when they announced you’d been hit - the rumors weren’t good, Vayne. It was some time before we even knew… what else did you think he would do?”

“Larsa shouldn’t be here.”

Cid’s expression changes, less chiding, more serious. Very serious. “You taught him too well. The boy… he knows something’s wrong. He might not know what it is yet, but he _knows_. Maybe he thinks if he’s obvious enough about looking, you’ll tell him.”

One of the few things they don’t agree on, Larsa as yet unaware of what has happened with the Midlight Shard or Vayne’s… condition. In his opinion, there is not a single reason his brother ought to know. If a solution can be found, then it will be as if it never happened, and there is no reason to make Larsa worry. If there is no solution…

“Sir.” 

Further contemplation is set aside for the moment, the messenger arriving along with the official after dinner _digestif_. The Doctor prefers cognac, generally of an age and strength similar to huffing Mist fumes, while Vayne has been presented with another gift of his new home, a tall, slender glass set in a shallow bowl of magicite alongside a decanter full of pale green that seems kin to a potion, though its healing powers are likely of a much shorter, if more entertaining duration.

The messenger bows. “The chef wished for me to inquire about the meal, and how many you might be expecting for dinner?”

“The meal was excellent, but dinner may be postponed indefinitely.” Vayne says. “I believe the Doctor and I will take a tour of the aerodrome.” 

No doubt Cid will find something to immediately distract him for the next several hours, at least, and Vayne can see about setting a few plans in motion, at least getting some sense of the landscape. No reason not to believe the girl, that the area past the city walls is unstable, but she’s never seen what pure Archadian stubbornness can do against the elements. If there’s stone beneath the sand and it’s solid enough to anchor to, all might not be lost. An excessive show of engineering might just manage to impress a few people, and prove his resolve. 

“Tell him to pack something up for us, for later.” He glances at Cid. “Or we could eat along the way?”

“The boy thinks he’s funny…” The Doctor mutters. Only then does Vayne remember the spices in his pocket. A shame, he could have asked the girl. Maybe he’ll make it her first official task, to educate him on what he ought to be eating.

“Here,” he says, passing them over, along with his finished drafts. “Have him see what he can do with those, and please bring those papers to the contract-maker.”

“Yes, Lord Consul.”

“Maybe it isn’t the most exciting meal. Maybe it’s not all flash and bang and eating bits that aren’t quite dead yet,” Cid continues, quite capable of talking to himself even with Venat gone. Feigning insanity still proves a good way to get out of meetings. “It’s about more than that. It’s about tradition and respect and… solidity.”

“Nothing like having to cut the gravy with a knife.” Vayne agrees, and takes a sip of his drink. It seems to be one of those spirits that’s brilliant when ice-cold, and likely undrinkable otherwise. He wonders how many of the desert’s more violent flora were distilled into this particular batch - by the way his throat burns it seems most of them are still rather put-out about it.

“True Archadian dining requires a subtle palate.”

Vayne nods. “The flavor of the brown does bring out the brown quite nicely.”

Cid sighs, the sound of a patient man who does not deserve any of this. “You know, I’d bother to be offended if I thought you summoned me halfway across the continent for lunch.”

Vayne smiles, and pours himself a double shot. 

Cid makes a pained sound, though there’s the beginnings of real worry in his gaze. “Gods, is it to be that smile already? Take pity on an old man.”

“You don’t like my smile? I’ve been told it’s rather fetching, in its way.”

He’s been told it’s his mother’s smile, by those who best remember her and have thought to make some mention of it. The first Queen had been a quiet, reserved sort of woman, and it was the common sentiment that there was a good deal of her to be found in her youngest son. Vayne does not let himself think about her often, or what she would make of all this - he lost the right to fond memories long ago.

“I have learned what the Sun-Cryst is for.”

Cid very slowly and deliberately sets down the paper he’s holding, and pushes it to the side, picking up his drink instead. 

“Well, then?”

Vayne tells him.

The doctor blinks, and swallows twice. Vayne takes another drink. Cid seems to have forgotten he’s holding a glass.

“Repeat that last part back to me?”

“The part about the line of Dalmasca being gifted the Sun Cryst in order to erase all of Archadia back to the dawn of recorded time?”

“… that part. Yes.”

The Doctor remembers his drink long enough to empty it, pour another round and finish it off just as fast, savoring the cognac as if it were threepenny wine. The next time he has such a revelation, Vayne needs to bring a second bottle, or smaller glasses.

“Usually to cock it all up this badly requires magic.” Cid says, after a long moment’s pause. “We did it with science. That’s progress.”

“Feel free to tell me I’m a proper lunatic, Doctor, and we can get on with the business of enjoying this lovely day.”

Cid throws out one hand, a half-hearted gesture. “Oh, you’re barking mad, says the man who’s spent half a decade conversing with gods.”

“Do you believe-”

A nod “It’s entirely possible, if one considers the variables at play.” Which may be the last thing Cid wants to do, but it doesn’t stop him. Vayne can watch the Doctor thinking his way through the details on levels he doesn’t even know to consider. “An engine designed to remake the world? Why not? So much Mist in so refined a chamber, over such a long period of time? Theoretically, there’s no reason the Sun-Cryst wouldn’t have the power to… alter whatever was intended. As for the Occuria… well, you are familiar enough with what happens when they conscript a vessel to carry out their will.” 

He lets his glasses fall, and rubs at his eyes, the gesture painfully weary. Maybe the trip to the aerodrome can wait.

“Doctor.”

“Truly, it is not every man who learns in detail how much better off the world would be had he never been born.”

All Vayne’s responsibility - all of it - wishing to see the unfettered reach of a brilliant mind. What good is any world, without such a man in it? He will take all of the Doctor’s supposed sins as his own, and gladly, for the privilege of seeing him as he ought to be. Somehow, he will find some absolution for Cid before the end.

“If you wished for me to rain down vengeance on you, you should not have made yourself so irreplaceable.” Vayne says. “Keep drinking.”

“A thousand men in Archades can turn a wrench. A thousand moogles, for that matter.” The Doctor swirls the dregs of liquid in his glass, thoughtlessly. “I would ask, of course, just how it was you discovered we are all of us destined for catastrophe?” 

“Raithwall. The Dynast-King himself, or the shade of such. Warning me of the fate that he could not avoid.” 

Cid’s eyes narrow, not in disbelief but in suspicion. “… and you saw him _how_ , exactly?”

Vayne sighs, and reaches out, plucking a piece of ice magicite from the shallow bowl. It glows a gentle, pale blue between his thumb and forefinger, before he clenches his hand around it. The pain is sharp, but brief, and he opens his hand to let the dull stone hit the table. No longer cold, carrying no haze of power - a simple piece of rock and nothing more.

Cid stares, and of course they both know the laws of magickal energy, the danger of spells lashing back upon their casters, and the fact that he has not been able to cast at all, not a single syllable since Nabudis.

“A clever enough party trick.” Vayne says mildly. “I do think it wise that I avoid any further attempts on my life at present. At least those involving magicks.”

“How much hit you?”

“Cid…”

“How _much_?”

“A flare spell at unexpectedly close range. I do believe dispelling it was better than the alternative.”

Vayne can nearly hear Cid’s teeth grind together, knowing full well that _absorbing_ is different than _dispelling_ and it damn well might have killed him - and there’s no reason to mention that for a few moments, it nearly had.

“… and of course no one saw this happen. Which meant you, what? Went after the rebels alone?”

“I admit it seems slightly less intelligent in retrospect.”

Cid wants to lash out at him, but it seems he’s not certain how to begin, whether Vayne’s recklessness, his self-destructiveness or his sheer idiocy ought to take center stage. It’s far more disquieting when he sighs, giving up, shoulders sinking as he leans forward, head in hand. It ought not to take these sorts of moments for Vayne to remember that the Doctor is not a young man.

“Well that’s it then, isn’t it?” Cid says, his voice bleak as scoured stone. “Endgame. The girl is going to kill us all, either by mistake or design.”

Technically, Archades would never exist _to_ kill, but there’s little point in quibbling over detail. A slight comfort in the thought that Marquis Ondore might have just long enough to pat himself on the back before he disappeared with the rest of them.

“The stakes have changed. The game has not.”

The destruction of the Sun-Cryst had ever been Venat’s aim - now they simply know for certain the reason it must be done. Vayne’s had nearly a full day to come to terms with the idea, and Cid is catching up fast.

“If we were to remove the girl…”

Killing the princess seems the easiest solution, but as with most things, easy rarely works. “According to Raithwall, she is the only thing holding them in check, else they would bestow their ‘gift’ unfettered. No doubt their next choice would serve us equally poorly.”

The Doctor drums his fingers on the table. “… and of course there is no one to warn who would believe any of it.” 

“It would certainly be more convenient if it were all simple madness.” Vayne says. “We may have some small consolation. Should she find her way to the Dawn Shard, supposedly it will show her why Raminas acted as he did. It might even be enough to convince her to stay her hand.”

“Which only solves half the problem.” Cid says. “You know the Emperor won’t let this go. Now that the girl’s been found alive, I doubt there’s much chance of hiding her away again.”

Doubtful the princess would think much of that plan, and Vayne can’t say he’s given it more than a glancing consideration. The idea that is forming is far less sane, and still missing a few key pieces, but there’s no way around it. He cannot let Ashelia of Dalmasca die, he cannot let her take the Sun-Cryst and he cannot risk it falling into any other hands, even his own. A weapon that powerful, to unmake the whole world with an errant thought - it must be destroyed. A judgment that will put him at odds with the throne, and eventually he will have to show his hand. Rebellion in Archades is one thing, but to do it from Dalmasca will look like nothing less than treason against the Empire. The sort of insurrection they’ve been expecting from him for years.

Cid stares at him, because he’s perfectly capable of taking all the facts to the same conclusion, and where another man might not believe Vayne capable of entertaining such abject insanity, the Doctor certainly knows better.

“I will need considerably more alcohol to continue this conversation.”

Vayne smirks. “It’s hardly my first choice.”

“Well, _that’s_ a relief.” The Doctor says, rolling his eyes. The steadiness in his voice is betrayed by his free hand, which has strayed to his throat, to his wedding band, rubbing a thumb along its curve. “At least we have our backup plan.”

It isn’t quite the corner King Raminas had been backed into, though that isn’t saying much either. 

“If Archadia were to mass upon the border, Rozarria would have to respond in kind.” Vayne says. “If we retrieve the Dusk Shard from Ghis, if the Dawn Shard can be regained from the Tomb, that’s two fair pieces of leverage, and Draklor to potentially… mitigate the larger parts of the fleet.”

Only a nebulous sort of idea, though an option he cannot afford to ignore. There are too many factors as yet out of his control, and that’s not even considering what to do about the other Judge Magisters, or the Senate, or the Emperor himself. Still, Vayne has always considered something of the kind, in the end. Setting himself up against the Empire - and it would be no minor injury, to hurt Larsa so, but it might be the only way to sever his brother from the history of his House. It would prove to the people where his loyalties lay. If Larsa defeated him, in Archadia’s name…

“That is not a plan.” Cid says, with the suggestion that he knows a good deal of what Vayne’s not saying and thinks just as poorly of it. “That is the third act of a bad penny drama.”

“We have done worse.” 

“You do know all this conjecture means little, as long as she is still stuck aboard the _Ifrit_.”

“Milord? Lord Consul?” A voice calls from around the wall, a hard voice. A soldier’s voice.

“Enter.”

The guard stops at the other end of the table, and bows. “I have news, from Judge Magister Ghis. The woman who led the attack, the lady Amalia. It seems, sir, that she has escaped.” 

Maybe the soldier wonders why the Lord Consul’s answer is laughter instead of anger, or why the Doctor only shakes his head with a rueful grin, toasting his glass to no one. Perhaps he thinks about the odd, weighted look that passes between the two men, how amusement seems more than a bit out of place at a time like this - or the soldier might not question it at all. He might have long since heard his fill of House Solidor, the Lord Consul, and the mad old man in his employ. The safest thing, as ever, is not to ask, just salute and walk away in gratitude, that he is no more than the messenger.


	12. Chapter 12

Of course there’s a room waiting for her, if she wishes to change. Of course Larsa would think of such things before Penelo can even ask. He leaves her at the door, the Judge Magister following him towards the courtyard near the end of the hall. 

The room - of course - is as perfect as every other inch of the palace. Maybe not quite fancy enough for a royal chamber, but more than spacious enough for her needs, with a full-length mirror and a privacy screen, a basin of fresh water with pale yellow flowers floating on its surface and a long expanse of marble floor, with a small table set off to one corner, beneath a wide window covered by an ornate iron trellis. It might well be the sort of room she would choose for herself, if she were to work here, a quiet place to get a good deal accomplished.

“Stop it.” Penelo murmurs, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, letting it out slow. “Stop it _right now_.”

Maybe she should have held off at the third glass of champagne, not that she’s truly feeling the effects. Sitting at the same table as an Emperor’s heirs is a rather remarkable boon to sobriety. 

The Lord Consul’s lying. He has to be lying, even if she can’t imagine why he’d bother making requests when demands take much less time. Maybe he is, and she’s just too dumb and provincial to know it.

Penelo stares into the mirror, one last moment with this other girl, a pretty Archadian with her hair and eyes and she can have this if she chooses, for today and tomorrow and who knows how long after. Penelo can live this life, if she’s brave enough to try. Even before the Lord Consul had made his impossible offer, Penelo had been tallying up every bit of food on the table - the fish flown in fresh daily, the caviar that never passed a port less wealthy than Bhujerba - and if he had a taste for the new and the different she could offer him a dozen Dalmascan banquets before she’d risk repeating herself, and that’s not even counting what they eat outside the city walls. If a little variety might put her in his favor - the Lord Consul is still dangerous, she’s sure of it, but is he a danger to her?

Migelo will lose business, if she accepts. Business and friends and who knows what else. Dealing with the Lord Consul will make up for the missing gil, but not the damage to his reputation, and she’ll be in House Solidor’s pocket then, obviously not a place anyone with sense would want to be.

Penelo has sense. What she doesn’t have are options - and if it works? If he makes things better, if Penelo can make a real difference for Rabanastre, does it even matter if they despise her for it?

_So this is what you’re worth, hm_ The walls themselves might as well be talking to her, the palace of her homeland now claimed by outsiders, stirred by a lonesome desert wind - the king murdered, her family gone, Reks himself one of the last victims of the war. _A few crumbs from his table and you’re so willing to serve._

What should she do, elsewise? Throw his consideration back in his face? Forget that he had plans for Lowtown, and that no one else will give him reason to stay his hand?

_Ah, and that’s all it is? Such selflessness? Look at you, with those pretty gloves and pretty jewels. Be as high-minded as you like, you still know the truth of it._

The truth is Penelo never could have dreamed of a day like this, a tour of Bhujerba, a trip home aboard a private airship. Being treated like a lady, with servants and favors and easy conversation - a guest. She’s in the _palace_ , and even at the best of times her father had never walked the halls so freely. Isn’t this what it’s all about - isn’t this the moment she’s been waiting for? Deals like this just don’t happen, not even once in a lifetime - what’s all the hard work in the world worth if she’s too afraid to take the risk, to reach for the opportunity when it comes? 

_“What would happen to us, you and me, if the Empire left tomorrow? I'd still be here with nothing, and you'd still be here.”_

It’s Nia’s voice arguing in her defense, proud and mercenary, cutting down the ghosts of Penelo’s conscience, those whispers of shame and doubt - and she absolutely knows what the other girl’s advice would be. Use the Lord Consul’s favor to go as far and as high as she can, if that means working in the city or in a job running the coast, sourcing him the best catch of the day. Do what her father taught her - bury the rich man in luxuries, as long as it pays - and if he turns out to be such a monster and there’s no way out, she can always poison him, or kill him in his sleep. No need to betray her conscience after all.

“Milady?”

The maid announces herself at the door, and she’s holding Penelo’s old clothes - although they don’t look old anymore, washed and mended and ready to be worn. Her boots have been polished, too, and Penelo can see that they’ve even been resoled, a task she’d been putting off until she might cut a deal to afford doing both at once. It seems her whole life has been shined up and handed back to her, a parting gift. 

_Selling your soul for so little…_ The city chides.

_Buy it back at wholesale._ Nia snaps in response. _What do you think happened to them, all those girls you think ought to be here? The Dalmascans who cut their deals before the war? I bet they don’t think about you at all, or their duty to the country. I bet their families are still alive._ Penelo knew she had it in her to hurt, to mourn. She hadn’t realized she could be this angry. _You don’t owe them your life, or your happiness._

Slowly and carefully, the dress and the gloves and the corset come off. Unlike Larsa, Penelo doesn’t even forget to remove the earrings. If the servant is at all surprised by the clothes she’s stepping into, or that the dress needs to be delivered elsewhere, she’s too polite to show it. Penelo will have to think up a gift for Rhiale to repay her kindness. It might be best to wait for the wedding announcement, as good a chance as any that Migelo will be asked to set up that celebration as well. Whatever strange spark of luck has brought her here, Penelo hopes it will pass on to those she’s met, that Rhiale will find someone here she might come to care for.

“Did you have a nice time today, milady?” The maid asks shyly, as Penelo tugs her bracelets into place, and reaches into her pocket - where Balthier’s handkerchief is waiting, newly pressed and folded, because of course it is.

“I did,” she says, and somehow it’s true.

——————————

Penelo feels saner and safer back in her own clothes, although she still doesn’t feel much like herself, even with every ornament gone and her hair braided back up into place. It seems like anyone who looks at her will be able to see every fear and doubt, all that she’s done and that she might do, some new, Archadian understanding clinging to her even now.

Larsa is waiting in the gardens, though not without company. He is seated at the edge of a fountain, gently stroking the neck of a brilliant emerald chocobo, perhaps one of the ones she’d heard earlier. Behind him, a small, blue chick is hopping about in the water, its feathers only half a shade darker than the sky. They aren’t a common breed in Dalmasca, perhaps a gift for the Lord Consul’s arrival. 

Unlike most other chocobos, the blues have webbing between their claws, spreading their feet out wide. At top speed on calm waters, they can even run along the surface of a pond or lake, though for a barely-hatched chick in a fountain this mostly means a lot of splashing and tossing water in all directions while looking bewildered by its utter failure. The green chocobo is irritated by such exuberance, ruffling its feathers each time a stray drop falls, sighing deeply when the chick trips awkwardly and lands beak-first in a gap in the statue at the center of the fountain, making muffled sounds of increasing panic as it tries and fails to pull itself out.

“Careful there. You’ll hurt yourself.”

Larsa comes to the rescue in an instant, ignoring the thorough soaking from the struggling bird and the calf-deep water, using his coat to wrap up the frantically kicking legs. 

“Easy, it’s all right now.”

Carefully, he wraps one arm around the chocobo’s body, his other hand gently guiding its head free. 

“There now. No harm done.”

The little bird chirrups in happiness. The green lets out another sigh. Larsa makes an attempt to wring out his coat, to seemingly little benefit. His hair is hanging in his eyes, right until he sweeps it back, tipping his face toward the sun with a smile, and Penelo feels a pang of protectiveness so sudden and sharp it takes her breath away. 

He’s worth the risk. Larsa’s worth trusting, worth tossing aside every bit of payback she might deserve and loyalty Dalmasca might be due. Even if it goes wrong somehow, Penelo knows it won’t be because he didn’t fight for her, because he didn’t try. If he’s going to give her his kindness and his loyalty, the least she can do is believe in him, and do what she can in return.

A wark of curiosity breaks the silence, and then the blue chocobo is hopping around her, stubby wings flapping in excitement at discovering a new arrival. Penelo kneels down, running a hand along the damp, downy feathers, the bird still little more than a baby. When Larsa’s shadow falls across them it chirps again, making a mad little figure-eight of glee around the both of them.

“And my plan to greet you smelling like wet bird is a rousing success,” Larsa mutters, wet and wrinkled in his undershirt, the coat a lost cause.

“It suits you.” Penelo says, because it does, and she has the suspicion that this is often the way it is with Larsa, and perhaps even with the Lord Consul. Leave a Solidor to their own devices for too long and they’ll find some way of keeping themselves occupied, propriety be damned.

He’s happy to see her, even though Penelo’s back to being the girl who stumbled out of the mines, even though it ought to be clear to him now that there’s no other girl she can be. The four of them make for an odd, slow parade across the grounds, the green chocobo mostly pacing alongside them, the blue chick running ahead or behind or failing to hop a hedge or catch some bug only it can see. The Judge Magister stands in the far corner of the garden, close enough to keep sight of them but far enough that they can speak without being overheard. It is as private as things have been since Bhujerba - though that has been only hours ago, not the lifetime it now seems.

“I am truly sorry, Penelo, for the loss of your family.”

He is. Larsa honestly is, and maybe it shouldn’t matter but it does. Mother would have adored him. Father would have been thrilled by Penelo being here at all, let alone making such a connection, and her brothers would have teased her mercilessly when they weren’t busy asking him about ships and birds. Larsa would have been welcome in her home, and gladly. Penelo nods, not quite trusting her voice. Thankfully, he seems to understand.

“My Lord Brother should not have said that about Rabanastre.”

“I did ask.”

Larsa shakes his head. “You don’t have to worry. He would never allow it.”

Except the Lord Consul isn’t the Emperor, and even an Emperor has advisors and Senators and Judge Magisters and who knows what else, with wars to plan and fight and win and people in great cities all making demands, and there’s no saying what tomorrow might bring. Penelo’s had a few years now, to learn how fast the world can change, and all the ways in which she is entirely expendable.

“It might not be in his power to change.”

Larsa frowns, his expression thoughtful and distant, as if he has considered as much already. “The situation with Rozarria has not improved, and the Lord Consul’s position here, so close to the border… he puts a great deal upon himself.” True enough, though Penelo doesn’t think Vayne Solidor would be satisfied with any less. “Too many have already suffered, there must be some way of making peace. We do not have to come to bloodshed.”

“What are you thinking?” Penelo says, and she remembers the way Vayne had looked at his brother, annoyance covering for worry at even seeing him in the palace - and it was a risk for him to come here. Maybe a small risk, but Larsa had also gone to the mines in Bhujerba without a guard, with no idea what he might be walking into. As reckless an adventurer as Vaan, perhaps, but where Larsa’s plans were that much more careful, the risks and consequences were surely far greater. 

“Be careful,” she says. “You shouldn’t do anything dangerous.” 

“I must do what I can, to help my Lord Brother and my country.” Larsa sees her worry, and his determination gentles slightly. “The stewardship of Archadia and her people is my obligation, as much as anyone's. If I am to do right by my House, I cannot put anything else, not even myself, above their well being - or yours.”

“We’ll be fine.” Penelo says, holding back the absurd urge to call for the Judge Magister, and she has the sudden thought that perhaps his real occupation is to protect Larsa from himself. “We survive, we always have.” It makes her ill, to imagine him braving danger for her sake, and Penelo reaches for his hand before she realizes what she’s doing, clutching it the same way she’d grab for any other child in Lowtown about to make some idiot mistake. “Promise me that you won’t go into the city alone.”

Larsa’s not a Lowtown orphan, though, and she can’t ask him to do anything, let alone _demand_ it… even though that’s exactly what she’s doing. Penelo drops her eyes, and knows she ought to apologize, even if he is not quick to draw his hand away. 

“I dare say I would prefer it if you were my guide. I have rarely found Bhujerba more enjoyable.” Penelo’s the one who reached for him, and she’s still startled by how close they’re standing. “Might I call on you, when things have calmed down?”

It’s difficult enough to consider a business proposition, that the Lord Consul wants her here because she’s useful, because she’ll serve some purpose. It’s another matter entirely, when there’s no pragmatism to be found. If Larsa was too polite to simply throw her out on her ear, Penelo had at least expected his embarrassment, an awkward distaste at realizing she was every bit the commoner she seemed. Instead, he seems to think this is only the first day of their acquaintance, blind to everything she can see as the obvious barrier to anything but a temporary alliance.

“Larsa… I’m not…” Penelo makes a vague gesture at her clothes and her - her _everything_. “This is me, who I am. Just this.” 

He’s looking at her - and he doesn’t stop looking. The same steady gaze as his brother, though it makes her nervous for entirely different reasons. 

“I don’t know exactly who you are, Penelo, that is true - but I would very much like to learn.”

Is she blushing? Penelo shouldn’t be blushing. It’s just one of those things refined gentlemen do, that his words all sound like compliments. The brilliant and charming Archadian noblewomen Larsa no doubt spends the rest of his time with, they’d know exactly how to respond, but coy flirtation is the one dance Penelo’s never learned the steps to. Rather useless, when she’d been busy enough with living, and afterward there’d never been a compliment that hadn’t come without a price attached, calling her pretty in the hopes of a discount, or some way of sneaking into Migelo’s favor. It should be the same with Larsa, but nothing at all is the same with him. If he were any other boy she’d have already thought about how handsome he is - and he is - but it seemed so obvious and silly and pointless to make note of it and she really does need to _stop blushing_.

“Wark!”

“Kupo!”

Thankfully, while she’s been stumbling through new ways to be ridiculous, the green chocobo has been scouring the gardens for food, shiny objects and threats - and there’s no telling which it thinks the moogle dangling from its beak might be. The bird has thankfully only grabbed their new arrival by his accoutrements, and the moogle flails at it for a moment before sighing in resignation. The blue chick hops up and down, chirping with excitement as Larsa frowns, though there’s a good deal of amusement hiding in his eyes as he steps up to the chocobo, arms crossed.

“If you would be so kind?”

The bird chirps, the sound oddly muffled around a mouthful of belt, and tilts its head, reluctant to let go of its prize. Larsa clears his throat a bit more sternly, and the beak snaps open, the moogle’s wings fluttering just fast enough for him to land on his feet. Penelo assumes he’s here for Larsa, startled after a moment’s pause to realize the moogle is holding the document case out to her instead. The green chocobo preens at its feathers as if it never had an interest in any of them.

The case bears a wax seal, the blue crest of House Solidor in miniature. Archadians are amazingly fussy with their contracts but at least it means there’s always a copy somewhere - they do tend to keep to their word when it’s all set down in script and gilding. Penelo unrolls a pair of documents, physical evidence of the unbelievable, should she need the reminder. An official contract to become the Lord Consul’s advisor, just waiting on her signature - and a full pardon for Vaan of ‘any and all crimes for which the accused has been charged or sentenced for.’

Penelo rubs her thumb over Migelo’s crest, the one he had her come up with for just these sort of contracts. Of course Vayne would know how to find it. He probably knew everything about her before she’d ever left the room. Penelo had been the one to create it - the silhouettes of three birds in flight, one for each of them, after Migelo had insisted she and Vaan be included, rising above a field of white wildflowers that had always been her mother’s favorite. Penelo had sketched it fast out without much thought, and she’d never really considered what it would look like, how official it would be in paint and gold.

“My Lord Brother is quite skilled at choosing those best suited for the task.” Larsa says. “I hope you will consider his offer.”

Penelo thinks that maybe, she might have said no to the Lord Consul. If she tried, she might have convinced him that it was just too dangerous for those who depended on her, that she wouldn’t be strong enough to choose helping Dalmasca over being hated by it.

Saying no to Larsa is just not going to happen.

The city bell rings out, faintly audible even from inside the palace, and it isn’t that late but it makes for a good excuse.

“I need to go.”

“You are still determined to make your own way home?”

“It isn’t far.”

Larsa bites at his lip slightly, and for all his wise words and thoughtful moods, for a moment he looks exactly his age. Even the chocobos seem to notice the change in his mood, the green leaning in to nudge him with its beak, the blue warbling uncertainly near her kneecaps.

“It’s silly of me,” Larsa says, “but it feels like once I let you leave, you will disappear forever. Promise me that you won’t?”

Penelo is rather sure she’s used up _all_ her life’s surprises with today. The only thing that might keep them apart is Migelo never letting her out of the shop again.

“If you promise me that you’ll stay in the palace.”

Larsa nods. “All right, I promise. But you must agree to keep something safe for me.”

The Judge Magister is still on the far side of the courtyard, too distant to see it when he takes the Nethicite from his pocket and hands it to her.

“Larsa, I can’t take this.”

But when he folds her fingers around it - she lets him.

“If I am found with it, there will be trouble _and_ scolding.” He grins, the sort of smile that could convince anyone do anything. “You can’t possibly wish such a fate on me.”

“You said it was valuable. Rare.” Priceless, actually. Penelo’s pretty certain it’s priceless - and suddenly sure that what she’s feeling is more than just simple protectiveness. Oh dear.

“It is. So I know I can trust you to be careful with it, until we see each other again.” 

How is it that he can say such things, and they always carry the weight they’re supposed to? Penelo’s a trader five generations deep, the whole business is about fancy words and fancier promises, pleasant flatteries that mean nothing even before they’re said - but it isn’t that way with Larsa. 

Penelo’s wanted nothing more than to escape the palace from the moment she set foot inside, but now it seems to take all her strength to step out through the gate. The blue chick tries to follow her, and there’s a moment of laughter to break the tension as they corral him back into the gardens, the green bird nestling down to play grudging nanny to the adorable menace.

“Thank you, Larsa, for everything.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Penelo can see her own warped reflection in the Magister’s armor, standing right beside them now that Larsa’s near the exit. Gabranth must hate the very idea of her - pardon certainly hadn’t been on his mind in Bhujerba, but whatever he thinks of all that’s happened, the meal or the offer Vayne has made or even the heat of day, there’s nothing but silence behind the helm.

Larsa smiles. “The pleasure was mine.”

Halfway down the path toward the outer wall, Penelo glances back, half-certain he’s already gone. Larsa is still there watching her, and raises a hand in farewell. She returns the gesture, and nearly walks into the guardsman waiting at the bottom of the path. The soldier bows to her, and Penelo takes one more moment to savor it, this strange world that has paused to allow her a glimpse inside, and then she’s alone again at the edge of Rabanastre.

\--------------------------------------

It feels strange just walking home, each step oddly off-balance, as if the world around her is no longer as vast as the world inside her head. Penelo picks at the wax seal on the case until it’s a meaningless blob, until the case might contain any sort of missive or inventory from one of Migelo’s rich clients. The Nethicite is hardly a weight at all, but Penelo is aware of even the slightest shift of it in her pocket - invaluable and entrusted to her. A promise and a secret, just for the two of them - and she’s blushing again.

The carefully paved lanes around the palace give way to more roughly cobbled paths, and Penelo ducks into a shortcut along an empty side street. With no one to see, she lifts up on her toes and spins for the sheer joy of doing so, scraping free small puffs of dirt and swinging her arms around like a child. The city is safe for the moment, and Vaan’s safety has been ensured by the hand of the Lord Consul himself.

“Penelo?”

The voice, low and smooth, doesn’t startle her. Turning to see the viera who’s hailed her, now _that_ is a bit of a surprise. It’s Krjn, from the clan hall. Penelo knows of her, even though they’ve never spoken - viera tend to be well known, with so few of them in town - though she can’t imagine what Montblanc’s partner would ever need from her. The expression on her face must betray the sort of day she’s had, she can see the viera’s expression soften, one hand raised as if she were a nervous beast in need of calming.

“I have been sent for you, by… recent acquaintances of negotiable repute, as well as friends who wish to see you safe. They wait for you outside the city. I will take you to them.”

If it were anyone else, Penelo might yet be skeptical, but she’s not even certain a viera can lie, let alone whether they’d ever bother.

“Penelo!?”

“Oi, Pen!”

Penelo stifles a grimace as two more voices bash their way into the moment, Kytes and Filo tumbling around the corner with equal expressions of curiosity and excitement. Always looking for some new mischief, far too good at getting involved at business they ought to leave alone and she can see they’ve clearly marked her as the best entertainment to be had. Which is fine, as long as she can at least keep them in the dark about where she’s been.

“I told you it was her.” Kytes says. “We saw you come from the palace!”

Damn it all.

“We heard from Migelo, that they took you to Bhujerba. He’s worrying his tail off. Was it really sky pirates?” Filo doesn’t look as much relieved at Penelo’s safety as annoyed that she didn’t get abducted too. “How did you get away? Are the pirates still around?”

“Why were you in the palace?” Kytes asks. “Did you go to steal something like Vaan did? What’d you get?”

“What happened?” Filo says, the two of them talking over each other. “Who’s the viera? Is that the one that was with the sky pirate?”

Penelo swears she hears Krjn snort softly, but the viera’s expression doesn’t change and there’s no more time to consider it before Kytes is tugging at the scroll case in her hand.

“What’s that? Where’s Vaan? Why’d you go to the palace?”

“Okay. Okay, wait.” Penelo takes a step back, keeping the case firmly out of reach, trying for her best serious adult voice that occasionally almost works. “I need to go now, but I’ll be back soon. I need you both to go tell Migelo that I’m safe, and that Vaan’s safe. Tell him we’ll be home as soon as we can. Don’t say any more about sky pirates, or the palace and… and tell him not to panic if the Lord Consul sends any notes.”

Or shows up at the door. Before today she thought she had at least some idea of what Vayne Solidor was about, restricted by the sensibilities of his status if nothing else, but now Penelo is certain she has no idea what he is truly capable of.

“What do you mean if…?” Kytes starts, but there’s no good way to explain that and thankfully Krjn seems to understand the need for a quick retreat, already moving up the street, Penelo stepping backward as fast as she can follow, tossing platitudes to cover her escape.

“Everything’s okay. Just tell him not to worry. It’s all going to be okay.”

—————————————————

Penelo vanishes as quickly as she’d appeared, following the viera down another street and out of sight, moving toward the East gate. Who knows where she’s going? Who knows where she’d been? Usually she’s the one scolding them for not being where they’re supposed to be or doing whatever work she thinks they ought to be busy with. It’s not like she doesn’t take care of them, but Penelo can be kind of boring when she’s not getting kidnapped.

“Where is she going with that viera?” Filo says, still convinced she would have made the much better hostage. “And what was she doing at the palace?”

“That was an Archadian contract.” Kytes says. “Why do you think she had it?”

“Sky pirates?”

“The Lord Consul?”

The two of them look at each other, and start to giggle. 

Penelo’s going to be in _so much trouble_.


End file.
